Nobody
by TheEquestrianidiot 2.0
Summary: Traumatized by the murder of her father, April O'Neil sets out alone to travel the world and study the criminal mind to enact revenge on those who wrong her. Now, seven years later, with old friends and new allies helping her fight the world's injustices, she will become a legend, but she will also become... Nobody. Co-written by ravenshell.
1. Running

April had just been beaten senseless for the third time. Her first week on the ship had not been bad. The captain was willing to take on a new hand, one without experience or papers, provided the new hand not choosy about where she slept, what she ate, or what kind of work she did. So April slept on rags in a corner of the engine room, ate whatever was left when everyone else had eaten, and worked harder than she had known it was possible to work lifting heavy crates, pulling at heavy cables, scraping paint off the ship's hull, cleaning foul-smelling gunk from the bilges. At the end of each fifteen-hour day, she dropped onto her rags, every muscle aching. but particularly the muscles in her back and calves, and drifted off to sleep despite the roar of huge machines only feet away. But despite the toil and discomfort, the first week was bearable because the Crew pretty much ignored her.

Her second week was bad. She was not ignored; she was tormented. It began when a wiry man, a bosun's mate, motioned for April to join him on the ships fantail. April smiled, thinking that she was finally going to make a friend.

The bosun grinned and said, "I am Hector. "

Still smiling, April neared the bosun and was kicked between her legs. She doubled over, falling to the deck, and without a word the bosun kicked her on the top of her head. April fell into a whirl of eddying color and awoke hurting.

* * *

The following day, a member of a different gang hit her with a garbage-can lid, and as April reeled against bulkhead, he tossed the lid aside and punched April, twice in the chest and once in the face. When April opened her eyes - a minute later? An hour? - her attacker was gone.

April went to the toilet and turned on a rusty faucet. She splashed cold, salty water on her bruises and tried to understand what was happening to her. An Initiation? Maybe that, but probably she was being hit because she was a stranger and life aboard ship was boring. Okay, she'd accept this reality and take what she could from it. She didn't like being punched and the color of her own blood held no delight for her, but she felt there were lessons to be learned here, and April was determined to learn them.

The bosun initiated the third attack. This time, April was ready and managed to land a blow before being knocked out. April awoke with water in her face. She looked up and saw the bosun standing over her with an empty pail.

"I teach you," the bosun said.

And he did—in odd, five-minute intervals between jobs, he educated April in dirty fighting. The lessons amounted to this: trust no one, hit first, preferably with something harder than a fist, and then hit or kick again, until your enemy can no longer resist. Then hit him once more. Or kick him. Or stomp him.

April had an idea of her own. Hector, and a lot of his other shipmates, were bigger and more powerful than she, the hard labor she'd been doing for months they'd been doing for years. But none of them seemed particularly bright, including Hector. By contrast, April was smart, as a whole battery of IQ tests had proven.

_Okay, I can't outmuscle them, but I can out think them . . ._

When they were within sight of land, April asked the captain about her salary. Salary? The captain chuckled. April was a stowaway and stowaways did not get paid.

After the ship was off-loaded and the crew had gone ashore, the bosun, Hector, invited April to the fantail.

"Let's see how good I teach you," he said.

_Okay, pal, you asked for it . . ._

While April was thinking about her first move, Hector knocked her down and began kicking her senseless.

* * *

April was starving.

She knew that her body had exhausted its store of fat and was consuming its muscle and that soon she would collapse and would probably lay in the filthy street until she died, unnoticed unless someone decided her rags were worth stealing. How long had it been since she had eaten? At least three days. It had been a cup of undercooked rice and April had gulped it down almost without chewing. She sat with her back against a tree, and raised her hand to her eyes and looked out over the African marketplace.

There were dozens of tents and tables heaped with fruit, vegetables, curried meats, and a throng of colorfully clad shoppers Inspecting, buying, and hurrying off to feed their families, April forced herself to her feet and joined the throng. She stopped by a fruit vendor, and as the old woman behind the table eyed her suspiciously, she picked up a mango in her right hand and made a show of examining it; with her left, she stole a plum from the table and dropped it into her pocket.

She hurried into an alleyway and bit into her plum and almost fainted from joy—the sweetness of it—nothing had ever tasted so good. Nothing could ever taste so good. She heard something; the slightest stirring, and saw a child, about four, squatting in a doorway. The child, a boy, was naked and covered with grime. His ribs stretched on his skin and his eyes, wide and glazed. The child gazed down at the half plum in April's fingers— the wonderful plum—and then handed it to the boy. April could probably get more food. The boy probably could not. Later, April was able to steal a handful of dates, and eat them, greedily sucking the last bits of flavor.

_I've committed my first crime. I'm a criminal. Well, well, well._

The next day, April got herself hired by a tramp steamer and in the following months saw a lot of Africa and some of Asia. She jumped ship in Marrakesh, slept under a bridge for a couple of nights, and signed onto a tanker bound for the United Kingdom. She hung around London long enough to learn something about stealing cars from the ship's cook, then shipped out on a freighter and found herself in Shanghai. One Of the deckhands from her last ship had a way to make some quick, easy money, and April was interested. She went with the man, whom she had nicknamed "Stocky," and together they traveled by taxi to an airport terminal at the edge of the city. There, they sat on a bench across the street and watched laborers fill a truck with crates. That night, April felt fear, the fear of one preparing to commit a crime, and perversely, she was exhilarated by it. Stocky and April hijacked the truck: no problem, the driver was not about to be a hero. After the job was done and they were speeding down a dark road, April suddenly began to laugh. Soon she was laughing and gasping and pounding the dash board and Stocky, who was behind the wheel, began laughing, too.

"We did it," April said.

"We did it."

* * *

Stocky drove into a warehouse near the docks. The two climbed down from the truck's cab, still laughing.

In Mandarin, April asked Stocky, "Where is your friend? The man who is supposed to meet us?"

"Not a friend," Stocky replied. "The friend of a friend."

Something in Stocky's tone April voice, in his body language . . . April knew she was being lied to and began looking for an exit. She was considering a run at a side door when it slammed open and at almost the same second every other door in the warehouse opened and uniformed policemen with guns and truncheons ran through them, shouting in Mandarin. The policemen surrounded April and several other men who had been in the warehouse when he arrived, pointed guns at them, handcuffed them, and shoved them down to sitting positions on the floor. Stocky had vanished. Obviously, he had made a deal of some kind, traded April for his own freedom. The policemen began unloading the truck and stacking the crates near where April sat.

One of the policemen, a young man with cold eyes, asked April her name in English.

April considered telling him and decided against it. Whatever April was doing—and she still was not sure what it was—she knew she had to do it alone.

"I would rather not tell you," April said in Mandarin.

"Bitch, what do I care? You are a criminal. It doesn't matter anyway."

"I am not a criminal."

"Tell that to the guy who owned these," the policeman said, kicking a crate bearing a Mouser Enterprises logo.

April expected a formal internment procedure: a reading of her rights, an appearance before a judge, perhaps even a phone call. Because she continued to refuse to give the policemen her name, she got none of that. Instead, she was put into a cell with four other women. After a few days behind bars, someone got her released. She never learned the identity of her benefactor, but she was met outside the jail by a small Asian man wearing a Brooks Brothers suit and a diamond ring on his right index finger who asked her if she might be interested in some work in Bhutan. It seemed to be a given that the work would be illegal.

_Why not? I'm already a criminal . . ._

She was taken to a small airstrip in a rural area and put on a World War Two vintage aircraft, a refitted old DC 6, with smoking engines and no passenger amenities, and flown over the Himalayas to a similar airstrip in southwestern China. She never learned what she was supposed to do there because a company of soldiers armed with automatic weapons erupted from the surrounding woods as soon as the plane's engines had stopped and placed April and the two pilots under arrest. Obviously, another deal had been made, somewhere, by someone, with April as a bargaining chip.

As in Shanghai, April refused to give the authorities her name. She was taken to a prison near some farmland and told she would remain there until she cooperated.

Was this the time to reveal her identity? To call her aunt or Irma or maybe even one of the Turtles and go home? No. She still didn't know whatever it was she had to learn. She had a hunch, though, that her next lessons would be painful.

The first night, in the mess hall, as April was carrying a metal bowl of gruel to a table, one of the inmates stuck out a foot and tripped her. April broke her fall with her left hand and the bowl skittered across the floor. The man who had tripped April drew back a foot to kick. April grabbed the man's other leg and yanked and as the man was falling April threw an awkward punch and caught the man under the chin. The man's head snapped back and struck a chair and he lay still. April got up and looked around: the guards, who had not moved from their places along the wall, were grinning. Apparently they enjoyed a good fight.

April waited, without supper, until she was returned to her cell. She slept fitfully that night.

She snapped awake to find her cellmate, a young woman who looked to be at least twenty-two and was almost as skinny as the child April had shared her plum with in Africa, staring at her. Already, the corridors of the prison rang with shouts and the occasional scream.

"Did you 'ave a weird dream?" she said with Scottish accent.

"No" April said, "nightmare".

The next incident happened during the afternoon recreation break in the yard. The day was bleak. A cold drizzle was falling, turning the tan dust on the ground to a dark brown mud. April was walking toward the cover of a tower when someone grabbed her from behind in a choke hold. April drove her elbow into her attacker's ribs, twice, and reached back, grabbed the man's hair, pulled forward, and then got her shoulder under the attacker's chest and heaved. The attacker, a young man whose skin was mottled and flaking, fell into the mud.

April continued to the tower and hunkered down, scanning the yard, aware that he was being stared at. This is bad, she realized. Life had been hard on the ship and she had acquired a few scars, but none of the crewmen had actually wanted to kill her. They tormented her because they were bored, and sometimes drunk, and they did not know how else to amuse themselves. But here, these men . . . they were full of hate and rage and she was a stranger, not of their kind, and so she was their natural enemy, and enemies died.


	2. Oroku Saki

_Before we get into the story, a HUUUUUUUGE thanks to EZB, ravenshell, and BubblyShell22 for all the help and advice you guys have given me. Bubbly, you rock. Seriously, your stories are incredible and have inspired me so much, you don't even know! ravenshell, the ideas you gave me are awesome and will be put to great use! And EZB . . . . Dude, you are awesome. All the help you've given me these past few months, all the ideas and advice and the one shots you've written . . . . Man, words can't describe how much I owe you, bro. You're one of the best friends I've ever had, and your stories are incredible. You stay awesome man!_

_Speaking of, if you guys are Gravity Falls fan, check out his story, "The Return to Gravity Falls". It is one of the greatest Gravity Falls fics I have ever read, and it is getting AWESOME. And for those of you who like some good Apritello, check out ravenshell's "Of Hearts and Shells: Fifty Shades of Green". It's awesome, and not really for the kiddes. But what am I telling you that for? You're gonna read it anyway. Ok, I'm done talking. BYE-BYE!_

_I own nothing._

* * *

April and her cellmate were in the mess hall, waiting to have gruel plopped into their bowls.

"They gonna to fight you again, you know that right?" the young woman said.

"Again? Jesus, don't these guys ever get tired of me?

"Nope. They ain't gonna stop. Not till they kill you."

The cook dumped a ladle full of gruel into April's bowl. "Couldn't they kill me before breakfast?"

April and her cellmate walked towards a table. They stopped. Their way was blocked by an enormous man with dozens of knife scars on his face and arms. Five other prisoners stood behind him. None seemed friendly.

The scarred man spoke English in an accent April could not identify. "You are in hell."

"I guess not." April heard her cellmate say.

He punched April in the face and she fell.

"And I am the devil," the scarred man said.

April got to her feet and smiled as she brushed dust from her shirt. "You're not the devil," April looked over at her cellmate. Her cellmate smirked and gave a small wink as April said, "you're practice."

The scarred man swung. April caught the fist, kicked the man's knee, and as the man fell, April kneed his face.

The scarred man's five companions all charged at once—a mistake, because they got in each other's way. April fought, using everything she had learned on the ship, everything she had seen in back-alley brawls, and some things she did not know she knew.

Then the familiar sound of two boards being slapped together instantly chilled April. Immediately, her attackers stood back and dropped their fists to their sides. A guard holding a pistol stepped in front of her.

"Solitary," the guard with the gun barked.

April made a show of being indignant. "Why?"

"For protection."

"I don't need protection!"

"Protection for _them_."

The guards dragged her from the mess hall and down a steep flight of stone steps. They flung April through a door and slammed it shut. She could see very little of where she was. The only light was from a small gap high in the wall that cast a crack of sunlight onto the dirt floor. The air was dank and stank of human waste. April tasted blood and touched a split on her lower lip.

"Are you so desperate to fight criminals that you lock yourself in to take them on one at a time?"The voice had come from the shadows—a richly civilized voice, deep and mellifluous, with the hint of an accent.

"Actually, there were seven of them," April said.

The source of the voice stepped into the light. He was tall, powerfully built, wearing an impeccably tailored gray suit. "I counted six, Ms. O'Neil."

"How do you know my name?"

"The world is too small for someone like the daughter of the famous psychologist Kirby O'Neil to disappear, no matter how deep she chooses to sink. Thirteen books, two television appearances even three Phi Beta Kappa Awards and, rumor had it, a movie deal. Your father was quite well known."

April squinted in the darkness to try and see the person speaking more clearly. "Who are you?" she asked.

"My name is Oroku Saki. But I speak on behalf of Suì zhǐ jī. A man greatly feared by the criminal underworld. A man who can offer you a path."

"What makes you think I need a path?"

"Someone like you is only here by choice. You have been exploring the criminal fraternity. . . But whatever your original intentions—you have become truly lost."

April moved closer to the stranger, this Oroku Saki, and examined his face: prominent bones, a prominent nose and chin—a strong, highly resolute face. A black eye patch covered his right eye and long dark hair cropped his head.

"What path does this . . . Suì zhǐ jī offer?"

"The path of one who shares his hatred of evil and wishes to serve true justice. The path of the League of Assassin's." April turned her back on Saki and snapped,

"Vigilantes."

"A vigilante is just a man lost in the scramble for his own gratification. He can be destroyed or locked up." Saki swept his arm to indicate the cell around them. "But if you make yourself more than a man . . . if you devote yourself to an ideal . . . if they cannot stop you . . . then you become something else entirely."

"Which is?"

Saki strode to the door. "A legend, Ms. O'Neil."The door swung open and a guard moved aside to let Oroku pass. "Tomorrow you will be released," he said. "If you're bored of brawling with thieves and want to achieve something, there is a rare blue flower that grows on the eastern slopes. Pick one of these flowers. If you can carry it to the top of the mountain, you may find what you were looking for in the first place."

"And what was I looking for?"

"Only you can know that." The door slammed shut behind Saki. April pushed against it: locked. She lay down on the dirt and stared up at the sliver of light until sometime, many hours later, she slept. She dreamed of bats exploding from a crevice and tearing at her . . .

* * *

Before dawn the following morning, April was escorted from her cell, given a breakfast of gruel and a chunk of stale bread. A guard handed her a canvas jacket with frayed sleeves and took her to where a rusty army truck was waiting, its ancient engine coughing and sputtering.

April climbed into the back of the truck, which left the prison grounds and bumped along a rutted road for an hour. The sun was bright in the eastern sky when the truck screeched to a halt. An Asian man in military fatigues came to the tailgate of the truck and barked at April in a language she did not understand. In the next instant it became clear as she was thrown from the truck.

As she picked herself up she watched it speed away. April shivered; it was snowing and incredibly windy and cold. She pulled the jacket's collar tighter around her neck and scanned her environment. There was a glacier far off in the distance, and April set off in its direction.

She walked for a very long time, and eventually she found herself in the foothills of the Himalayas, at the edge of a field of exquisite blue poppies. She stooped and picked one, studied it, and put it in her breast pocket. She trudged to the foot of the nearest slope and began the hike upward. The sun was almost directly above, and the snow and wind had increased in pitch by the time she topped a steep, twisting trail and saw a cluster of huts a few hundred yards away.

She hurried toward them; she had been climbing for hours in thin, frigid air. She needed food, rest, warmth. She saw two men and a woman near one of the huts and waved to them. They scurried into the hut. She ran toward them, yelling. All the doors were closed. She pounded on one with her fist. No answer.

_Maybe the flower is some sort of signal_ . . . She took the poppy from her pocket and held it high over her head. "No one will help you."

April turned: a young child, a boy around eight years old, had spoken in English and was pointing to the flower.

"I need food," April said.

An old man came around the corner of the closest hut, stood beside the child, and said, also in English, "Then turn back."

April waited for the old man to say more. When he did not, she continued up the mountain. At about mid afternoon, by April's estimate, clouds had completely covered the sun and the mountainside was colder and windier. The upward slope had grown steeper and snow hit her constantly. April was panting as she climbed to the top of an icy ridge.

The rest of the mountain was covered in clouds, snow, and mist. April clamped her teeth together to stop their chattering, but she could not control the shivers that racked her body. Wind howled down the slope, driving gusts of snow into April's face and eyes. She blinked, wiped her face on her sleeve, and struggled on.

At the next level clearing, April flopped down into the snow. The sky was almost dark and the wind felt like a razor slicing her face but she did nothing to shield himself. She was completely exhausted. She could go no farther. This is where it ends . . . Something was visible through the snow, the silhouette of . . . what? A building? April rolled to her hands and knees and tried to stand. She could not; her legs refused to stay straight.

April crawled across a stone patio, making furrows in the snow behind her, and up a small flight of wide steps to a tall wooden door. She struck the wood with her fist feebly. She struck again, harder, and again, harder still. There was a creaking and a grinding sound, and the door scraped open. April pulled herself inside and, leaning against a wall, got to her feet.

She was in a huge, vaulted hall lit by torches set into iron brackets on the stone floor, forming pools of flickering firelight that melted into surrounding shadows. There were thick, supporting pillars every few yards. The door creaked and scraped and thudded shut. April squinted, adjusting her sight to the semidarkness. At the far end of the hall, at least half a city block away, there was raised platform. On it sat a robed figure, a man whose features April could not make out, robes covering his body and a large hood covered his face and mouth, April only being able to see his eyes.

Despite the subzero temperature outside, the long chamber was warm and humid. April felt her body recovering from its ordeal as it warmed. She unbuttoned her jacket and shuffled forward.

"Suì zhǐ jī?" she called.

A dozen men emerged from the shadows behind the torches. Their clothing was a mix of ethnic dress and modern combat garb. As they moved toward April, they brandished daggers and short swords.

"Wait!" someone commanded. The armed men stopped and became as still as stone.

Oroku Saki stepped around a pillar. April reached into her breast pocket and pulled out the blue poppy. She held it out, her hand shaking.

Suì zhǐ jī spoke in what April thought was Urdu. Saki translated: "What are you seeking?"

April's lips were numb and she found it difficult to answer. "I . . . I seek . . . the means to fight injustice. To turn fear against those who prey on the fearful."

Saki moved to stand in front of April, and took the flower.

Suì zhǐ jī spoke again, and again Oroku translated: "To manipulate the fears of others you must first master your own." He placed the poppy in a buttonhole and asked April, "Are you ready to begin?"

April felt herself trembling with fatigue. "I . . . I can barely . .."

Saki kicked her and April fell to the floor.

Fists on hips, Saki looked down at her and said, "Death does not wait for you to be ready." Gasping, April struggled to her feet and Saki punched her in the ribs. April staggered backward.

"Death is not considerate, or fair," Saki said. "And make no mistake —here, you face death!"

Saki pivoted 340 degrees and aimed a kick at April's neck. But April raised her right forearm and blocked Saki's foot. Saki smiled.

April put her left leg forward and shifted her weight onto her left, and put her flattened, crossed hands at chest height: a martial arts stance she had learned aboard ship. She forced herself to remember everything else she had learned on the ship, and in all the dark alleys and filthy bars where she had fought, and won, and been defeated. Saki attacked and April responded: punches, kicks, blocks, jabs, chops—a smooth flurry of continual motion. Saki said, "You are remarkably skilled. But this is not a dance."

Saki smashed the top of his head into April's face and immediately kneed her in the groin, driving his flat palm up into April's chin. She fell backward and tried to rise, but could not.

Saki crouched over April. "And you are afraid. But I sense that you do not fear me." Saki pulled the blue poppy from his buttonhole and dropped it onto April's chest. He put his lips close to April's ear. "Tell us, O'Neil . . . what do you fear?"

And April remembered: screeching bats exploding from the crevice and tearing at her . . .


	3. The Death of Kirby O'Neil

The theatre, while not the most popular form of entertainment in this day and age, had drawn a small crowd for the evening's performance of Mephistopheles. As the play let out, the patrons—for the most part the high-brow sort that Kirby and April had become accustomed to associating with—filed out, some discussing the philosophy of the play, others chatting with each other before bidding farewell and heading toward their vehicles. Kirby O'Neil's sphere of influence extended quite far, his popularity evidenced by the number of muckity-mucks stopping to catch his attention to wish him a fine evening before heading off themselves.

April did her best to act the dutiful daughter. The theater wasn't her thing; the play was much too cerebral and philosophical for her. She would rather have gone to a low-budget monster movie with her friends any day of the week than sit through two hours of boring metaphorical tripe… but, this was how high society worked. You didn't go to watch a play; you went to see and be seen. And if you happened to be the daughter of a highly influential person, who would probably inherit his empire, well, you were expected to be along for the ride, naturally. You had to meet and greet, remember names, laugh at little jokes that weren't remotely funny. She hated it with a passion, but as her father's main source of emotional support, she felt obligated. So there they stood, in conversation with Sir Business Venturist and Dr. What's-his-face and Mrs. Nobel-Prize-winner's-cousin's-wife until literally everyone who had attended that evening had come to shake Kirby's hand and bend his ear for a moment, and as such, the street was abandoned as they left, save for a single parked car with shaded windows.

Despite his new station, Kirby did not flatter himself with a valet. They would be taking the subway home, which meant walking a couple of blocks. April groaned to herself, having to walk the distance to the station in heels, and at least that far again from their stop to the house. _Why?_ she wondered, _Why can't people go to these things in t-shirts and Vans?_

"Well," Kirby sighed as they left the classily-lit building, "that was dull." April chuckled in agreement. "Did you enjoy the play at least?"

"It was a bit thick for me…" she admitted, and her father nodded.

"Maybe next weekend, we'll just go see that Giant Worms from Jupiter movie you've been on about."

April rolled her eyes. "Psh… Dad, you don't need to—" She froze, then turned, sensing a threat from the charcoal-gray car—the one that had been parked in front of the theatre—as it pulled slowly up beside them, the back passenger window rolling down. She saw the man's face, pulled taut in a nuetral line and then saw the glint of gunmetal and the black hole of the end of a revolver. She tried to call out to her father, to tell him to run, duck, move… something, but she got so far as forming the D in Dad with her tongue before the first shot rang out. Kirby reached out, grabbed the back of her dress and threw her backward to the ground as several more shots punctuated the air, three of the bullets perforating him as he moved to shield his daughter.

She landed hard on her backside, sprawling. She executed a backward somersault, popping several pearl beads off her gown in the process, gaining her feet (and breaking one of those damned heels) just in time to see twin sprays of blood as bullets exited the back her father's torso. A ragged scream of "No!" burst from her throat as he crumpled, gasping. Suddenly, she heard a car door open. She looked on in panic as a man walked towards her, gun in hand. She gasped, and instinctively curled up near her fathers body, waiting for the bullets to begin to tear into her.

But they never did.

Instead, she heard something be placed on her fathers body. She cracked one eye open and stared at a single red rose. Suddenly, the man spoke. "Antonio Vivaldi sends his regards."

The man approached the car, and got in. The car sped off, tires squealing. With a flurry of wings, a flock of bats, disturbed by the commotion, took wing, swooping low out of the alley behind them. April shrieked and ducked in phobic terror, recovering herself once the little flying creatures were gone. _Of all the times…_ she chastised herself._ Pull yourself together, O'Neil!_

She looked down at her father, heedless of the damage she did to her dress. "Dad!" she screamed. "Dad!" She gaped at the holes left in his chest, smelled copper and felt viscous wetness as she wrapped her arms around him to tilt him up. His blood painted her hands red to the wrists. She looked around at the empty streets. That particular block of the City that Never Sleeps was remarkably still and empty. "Help! Someone help us! Help!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, praying that someone could hear her. She wouldn't count on it.

Keeping her head as best she could with tears blurring her vision, she scuffled around on the pavement for the beaded clutch that matched her dress, smearing it with her father's blood as she snapped it open and dug into it for her phone. For a moment, she considered calling Donnie, recalling his promise that he would always be there for her. She paused, dismissed the thought, and dialed 911 instead. The turtles wouldn't be able to help now. Where had they been when she needed them? Why would they have been at a playhouse?! She chided herself as the emergency operator came on the line. "My dad's been shot!" she wept into the phone. "We're about a block from the Majesty Playhouse… North. Three times, in the chest. He's lost a lot of blood. Sit him up?" She did as she was instructed, putting down the phone and tilting her father forward. "Dad, stay awake, hear me?"

Kirby panted and moaned at the pain. Blood trickled from both sides of his mouth—from all she knew, that was a bad sign. "April…" he wheezed.

"I'm right here, Dad. Stay awake…" Her voice squeaked. Tears poured down her cheeks. She could hear sirens approaching, but somehow she knew it was already too late. He was fading, right before her eyes.

He reached up and weakly clasped her hand. "Don't be afraid," he whispered. They weren't words of comfort; the conviction Kirby O'Neil put behind his dying words made April sure of that. He meant, don't let them intimidate you… don't let them win.

She nodded while she sobbed, letting him know she understood. "I love you, Daddy…"

He smiled at April, sighed. April sat among the bloodstained pearls. Something began to swell within her. She had no idea what it was, just that it was somehow connected to her father and that she had to keep it in check . . . had to.

The first of the emergency vehicles pulled up on the street, rotating lights flicking over them, but neither of them paid them any heed. Kirby met his daughter's eyes as the light faded from his. His body convulsed twice, then was still. April ran a hand over his cheek, leaving bloody trails there, as she was pulled away by the EMTs. Someone led her aside, asked if she was injured anywhere, and threw a blanket over her shoulders. April numbly shook her head, unable to do much more than howl at the loss of her father and watch without hope as the crew attempted to resuscitate her father with a portable defibrillator. She looked on, hoping against hope that they would be able to bring him back, but already knowing he was gone.

The EMT taking care of her led her to sit in the back of one of the two ambulances that had arrived at the scene, allowing her to cry out her grief, leaving her alone for the moment at her insistence that though her heart had been wrenched from he chest, she was fine.

A while later a policeman came, and then more policemen, and some of them put April's father into a bag and loaded them into the rear of an ambulance. Someone, April did not know who, took her in a car to a big building. There was a crowd on the sidewalk in front of the building, and some of them snapped pictures as April passed by. April, clutching her father's overcoat, went inside and was led to a chair. She sat, and waited, and felt herself becoming numb all over, inside and outside, except for the swelling thing in her chest. She wondered if everyone had forgotten about her and decided she didn't care if they had. After a while, she seemed to leave her body and watch it from somewhere else—not any particular place, just somewhere else.

A hand on her shoulder jerked her back inside her body.

"You okay, sweetie?"

April saw that the hand belonged to a tall, ruddy man whose hair and mustache were thick and black and whose blue eyes were warm and kind.

"My name is Arnold Jones," the man said. "You need anything? A sandwich? Soda?" He gestured to the overcoat in April's hands. "Is that your father's?"

April nodded. Jones gently took the coat and draped it over April's shoulders, rubbed her shoulder, and smiled. "It's ok." he said. "It's gonna be ok. I promise."

Another man, wearing an officer's uniform, approached and said loudly, "Jones! You gotta stick your nose into everything!"

Arnold Jones turned to the man in the uniform and stared, not saying a thing.

"Get outta my sight," the uniformed officer commanded. Jones touched April's shoulder again, then spun on his heel and stalked away.

The man knelt in front of April and said, "Got some good news for you. We got him."

"Got . . . who?" April murmured.

"Who do you think? Harry Parker. The skel that iced your daddy."

The man's words were English, yet it was as though he were speaking a foreign language. April understood the words, but she could not grasp their meaning. So she just sat and felt the thing inside her continue swelling until it filled her, and her own skin was just a thin covering over it, a garment she was wearing like the opera singers' costumes, and after a while it became her. It was the real April. Everything else was false.

* * *

Detective Arnold Jones, Sr got home late that night, but Cassidy had put his meal in the oven to keep it warm. He kissed her soundly and ate the pork chops and mashed potatoes she had prepared. In the six months they had been married, Cass had not once neglected to make a hot dinner for her Arnie.

Afterward, they watched the late news on television. As they were preparing for bed, Cassidy said, "Something's wrong."

"It's nothing."

"Yes it is. Tell me."

He told her about the killing of Kirby O'Neil and the frightened girl who had been been there to witness it. He told her about his boss and how he had treated young April.

"He's the whole damn department," he concluded. "He's not the exception, he's the rule."

"You're thinking about Chicago?"

"The offer's still in place, but it won't be forever. So yeah, I'm thinking about it. I know it'd be a pain, moving away from your family and friends . . ."

Cassidy was sitting on the edge of the mattress, her slender body tense. "Yes. Yes, it would."

"Well, we don't have to decide tonight."

Cassidy rolled onto her back and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

* * *

Two days later, at a plot of unused land on an old cemetery, April watched a coffins containing her father was lowered into an oblong hole. Some of the mourners were crying softly and a few of them looked at April, as though trying to gauge her feelings. She wanted to cry, he really did, because she realized that tears were expected and, more important, appropriate. So she bowed her head, but no tears would come. The thing inside her, the thing that filled her body, would not allow crying.

A crowd of people, all of whom had spoken condolences to April, began to walk slowly away from the gravesite. April stood beside her aunt until the coffin was out of sight and then turned toward the car. It started to rain, and the wind was cold.

"There's someone who would like a word with you, April," her aunt said, and escorted April to a car in front of the cemetery gate. A tall man in what April recognized as a cashmere overcoat stood next to a black car—a Rolls-Royce, April knew.

"This is Mr. Burne Thompson," her aunt said to April, and Mr. Thompson smiled and reached down to shake April's hand.

"Pleased to meet you," April said.

"I want you to know that you're in excellent hands," Mr. Thompson said, nodding at April's aunt, "and we're minding the company your father helped build. When you're older and ready, there'll be a spot open waiting for you."

Mr. Thompson ducked into the Rolls-Royce and April's aunt led her into the car and drove off.

* * *

Donatello met her at the bottom of the manhole she usually used when visiting the turtles' lair. He caught her up in a silent, somber embrace, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. She wished he would cry… her own emotions felt as though they had gone dormant within her; she couldn't feel anything. Well, not exactly true: there was the continual press of her rage, pent up and contained within its ever-expanding bubble in her chest, and there it would remain until she could unleash it on its intended victim. It pushed out the shock of the event, the crushing loss she should have felt, the comfort of the hug Donnie had pulled her into with none of his usual bashful trepidation.

"I'm so sorry, April," he said eventually as they walked slowly to the lair. "I can't begin to guess what you're feeling right now."

She turned sorrowful but dry—albeit dark-ringed—eyes on him. "Nothing. I'm like, completely numb."

Donnie paused, catching up and matching her pace once he could coax his feet into moving again. He'd been prepared to comfort her, to sympathize, to be a shoulder for her to cry on; an emotional void, he hadn't readied himself for. "We're all shocked that he's gone… no one more than you, of course," he droned in a soft, gentle voice. "We'll all miss Kirby, a lot. We're still in shock that something so horrible could have happened—right under our noses, to one of our closest allies… April, if we'd have known—"

"You didn't," she said shortly, nearly snapping at him and turning the entire ball of bitter rage within her on him, but she held it, pushed it back down.

They reached the turnstiles that led down into the subway station the mutants had converted into their home. Leo, Raph, and Mikey all stood at their approach. The three turtles had been seated on the benches before the TV, though it wasn't turned on. It didn't feel like an appropriate time to watch anything; more likely, the three—and Donatello, before he'd left to meet her—had been sitting together in silent mourning. Michelangelo sniffled, occasionally emitting a tiny whine. Raphael remained reticent, swallowing with difficulty past a lump high in his throat.

Leonardo wore a distraught grimace, as he replayed the strategy he had employed the night of Kirby's murder, searching for some trick or tactic that might have put at least one of them near April's father without sacrificing one of his brothers in the process… seeking a plan for a past event in which he retroactively kept everyone safe and whole. Clearly, not being able to find a stratagem to repair this broken reality was as distressing to Leo as the occurrence itself. It was he who approached April first. He wouldn't look her in the eye. "I'm sorry," he said in a contrite whisper, capturing her hands. "Kirby was a great friend and ally. I wish there was something we could have done to save him…"

April gazed at him with steely eyes and pulled her hands away from him, balling them into fists. She clamped down on the metastasizing anger, but one little tendril found its way out before she could bite it off. "Where were you?!" she snapped, voice low and bitter. "You knew they were after him! You failed me!"

Leo turned his eyes away, wincing at the accusation. Raphael stepped up to answer. "It was a turf war, the Dragons and the Turks. Big one. Must've been a hundred guys there. Guns everywhere. We wouldn't'a made it without all of us there." If Raph was backing Leo, and not flashing his usual bravado that he could have taken all the gang members down himself, it must have been a rough fight, and the onus of not being able to protect Mr. O'Neil weighed on them all.

Donatello set a gentle hand on her shoulder. "We can't be everywhere, April. We would have done anything in our power if we thought your dad was in any immediate danger. You know that."

A plastron crushed into her from the opposite side as Mikey hugged her tightly. "We're all going to miss Kirby, April. He was an awesome dude… the best. None of us would have traded him for anything, but… we saved a lot of people that night. We did our best—"

Mikey's face turned deeply hurt as April shoved him away and flung Donnie's hand from her shoulder. Don simply looked shocked, hand floating above her shoulder. A fire of hatred flared in her gut, blazingly hot, but chilling blue. "Your best wasn't good enough! Did any of those punks deserve to live more than my dad?! Did any of them do anything great to help society rather than help tear it apart?!"

Raphael caught his stricken younger brother and scowled. "Ya gonna blame us for not bein' able to predict the future?! Hah?!"

April growled, ready to jump him, but Leo moved between them, blocking them with a katana held out to one side. "April," he said firmly, "there was nothing we could do, and nothing more we can do but remember Kirby and honor his memory."

She gave an exasperated gasp. " 'Nothing you can do?!' My father was gunned down right in front of me, and his killer is still alive—"

"—and in the hands of the proper authorities, who will deal with him properly."

"Properly, my ass, Leo! You know as well as I do that Vivaldi won't let that happen!"

The turtle in blue sheathed his sword and clapped his hands down on her shoulders, looking her in the eye. "Maybe he will, and maybe he won't. We can't be sure. But right now, what you need is to calm your mind, and grieve in peace."

The girl turned a scathing glare on him. "I don't believe you guys. You're all talk! Harry Parker needs to be taken out, so he can never do this to anyone ever again!"

"We don't kill!" he told her firmly, looking her in the eye. "We've been taught that every life is precious, that everyone gets a chance to atone…"

"Parker doesn't get to atone!" she screamed back. "There is nothing—_**NOTHING**_ he can do to make up for taking my father away from me!" She threw his hands from her shoulders, glaring vindictively at him. _**"And you're just going to let him get away with it!"**_ she snarled.

Leo looked as if he was about to reply, but suddenly stopped, backing off. Clawed, furred hands, feather-light, came down on her shoulders, and April winced. She really didn't want Splinter trying to talk her down right now. "My child, come. I would speak with you."

April ground her teeth, but relented. "Yes, Sensei." She allowed the ninja master to steer her toward his personal sanctum, seething, but doing her best to once again contain the fire within her. The aged rat set a low table before her and motioned for her to sit, then left the room, returning a couple of minutes later with a pot of green tea and a pair of cups. He lit a stick of incense before sitting, filled her cup, then his own. The two of them sat in silence for several moments. At last, Splinter stated, "You are deeply in turmoil over your father's death."

"My father's murder," she corrected sourly.

The old rat nodded. "This is to be expected. Kirby was a great man, an invaluable ally to us, and naturally, irreplaceable as your father. I understand your anger toward the one who did this. I know how it consumes you, but you must not let it. In a game of vengeance, there are no winners."

April listened, head down, but remained silent. She grabbed her cup hastily and downed most of it, scalding her tongue in the process. Master Splinter was wise, and knew what he was talking about, but she couldn't take his advice… not this time. She could not, and would not, let her dad's death go unanswered for. Her father could never be replaced, but seeing his killer put down would certainly ease the burden on her heart. And she knew that if the man worked for Vivaldi, some underworld connection or other would pull the right strings to assure that Parker's trial would be rigged. She knew in her bones—just knew—that the corrupted justice system would fail her. If the turtles refused to help her, then she had nobody on her side. She was on her own.

Splinter went on. "The rage which burns in you now is merely grief, transformed. Given time, it will cool, and you will be able to deal with your loss properly. It will be a long process, not something to be rushed, lest the flame flare up again. Meditate to calm your spirit, and look to those who love you for comfort and consolation. You are a part of this family as much as I or any of my sons, and you will always be welcome here."

"Thank you, Sensei," she said automatically, still not meeting his gaze. There would be no calming of her spirit, none of the recommended meditation—she didn't want this fury in her soul to go away; she had to hold on to it.

They finished their tea, and the rat mutant dismissed her. She exited Splinter's sanctum, walking at a measured pace, putting up a mask of calmness so as not to arouse the master's suspicions that she intended to directly defy him.

Donatello awaited her as she returned to the lair's common space. The other turtles were conspicuously absent, though she could hear Mikey puttering around in the kitchen. She suspected Leo was meditating in his room, and Raph had likely gone for a run in the sewers… in any case, none of them was around to face any further vitriol from her. They hadn't even deserved any of her ire… it had simply gotten away from her. She couldn't allow that to happen any more. Her anger wasn't meant for them… and yet, she was focused on doing something that would betray their very code of honor…

Donnie's kind, sad eyes turned her gut into a leaden lump as she made his way toward him. Murder… _premeditated murder…_ it was something that went against every fiber in her being, and yet, the cold fire within her drove her toward doing it. The realization hit her that her innocence, her kindness, any last iota of mercy within her had died the same night her father had, and she grieved their loss along with that of him. Her face twisted with the emotion at the sudden understanding, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes and trickling down her cheeks.

Misreading her tears, her turtle companion gathered her comfortingly into his arms again, hushing her tenderly as he stroked her hair. "It's all right… let it out…" he cooed. How could he know that she couldn't? He had no inkling that she was dead-set on killing someone, and once she did… No matter what Splinter said, as a murderess, she would never be welcomed back to their lair. She would never be coming back. And Donnie—this would be the last time she would see him, be touched by him… He had been so kind… losing him broke her heart, and she knew she would end up breaking his, but her mind was made up so steadfastly that in her mind, the deed was already carried out. She was locked into this course, and even Donatello's love could not sway her from it. Her tears intensified, mourning the impending loss of him as well. She sobbed into his plastron and reached up, wrapping her hands around his neck. He gasped slightly, eyes widening in utter surprise as she pulled herself up and pressed her lips against his insistently. Swept up in her sudden ardor, he tightened his embrace to pull her even closer, her fire igniting passion within him as well.

She knew she was giving him false hope, but if she never knew his love any further than this, she was going to pour all of herself into this moment… but every kiss was tinged with remorse. What to him was an encouraging step forward in their relationship was merely her way of saying goodbye. _I'm so sorry, Donnie,_ she wept to herself. There was a moment where she wanted to turn back—she could stay, for him, and forget about avenging her father; do as Master Splinter advised and let go—but images of her father flashed through her mind, and the fury shoved its way back to the forefront. Her course was decided, though it pained her. She pulled back from their kiss, gazing sadly into his eyes, her own reddened and burning from her tears.

"I have to leave," she whispered, barely able to get the words out.

Don gave her a last squeeze before releasing her. "I understand… This is, maybe, not the right time…" He walked her back to the turnstiles. "April," he said as she turned to go, "remember, we're—I'm always here for you."

She turned a melancholic smile on him, and leaned in to hug him. "Thank you, Donnie… for everything." Her words were soft, her voice seeming to desert her.

"Anytime," he grinned back. "See you in a couple days?"

"Yeah," she lied with a fake smile, feeling her heart tear out of her chest. "Definitely."

He gave her a bright grin. "See you later, then," he said, waving her off.

"G'bye…" she whispered, then turned and trudged away, not looking back. _Forgive me, Donnie,_ she thought, giving herself over to the rage once more, welcoming the fire. _Burn me up,_ she willed it. _I'm damned, and I'm already in Hell…_

* * *

_A HUUUUUGE thanks to ravenshell for all the work she did on this chapter. She's an amazing writer and an awesome friend! Be sure to check out her works here or on Archive of Our Own!_


	4. Confrontations

_Thanks to EZB for beta reading and editing. You're awesome, bro!_

* * *

It was seven months after the death of April's father. Seven months since she had last spoken with the Turtles. She never went back to the lair. Instead, she went to live with her aunt upstate. And for seven months, the rage had not left her heart. She had spent every waking moment trying to figure out what motivation Vivaldi had to kill her father. And she had nothing. She learned quick when she visited the city that she couldn't go to the cops because Vivaldi had paid off most of them. And the ones that weren't still wouldn't tell her anything because it was "Police business". So she had gotten nowhere.

She stood at the front of the first car of the old monorail train, swaying, enjoying the spectacle of New York City rushing past—the many-colored roofs, the tiny side streets and wide avenues, the millions of windows gleaming in the morning sunshine. The train slowed, stopped. April picked up her duffel bag, swung it over her shoulder, and stepped onto the platform. She saw her aunt at the far end of the platform and waved.

"You didn't have to pick me up," she said as her Aunt Susan approached. "I could have transferred to the red line—"

"I'm don't think that's an option, dear. The red line . . . well, it's closed. Apparently the people who ran this thought it wasn't making enough money."

April followed Susan through a station she barely recognized. Her father's splendid achievement that he, and so many others had helped build, had become shabby: cracked glass, chipped marble, men and women huddled against the walls, some of them next to fires built in trash cans, others huddled by shopping carts filled with rags and bottles.

They left the station and April looked up at the Empire State Building, gleaming in the sun, magnificent as ever.

A few minutes later, driving through start-and-stop rush-hour traffic, Susan guided the Rolls-Royce up a side street ramp and onto the freeway.

"Will you be heading back to school tomorrow?" she asked. "Or do you think could I persuade you to spend an extra night or two?"

"I'm not heading back at all," April replied.

"You don't like it there?"

"I like it fine. It just doesn't feel the same way."

April smiled and settled back in her seat. They had left the city and were proceeding along a country lane, past tall elms and oaks, their foliage glorious this fine November morning, and, every half mile or so, past a cluster of buildings that included a big house.

Her aunt slowed the car down and entered through the gates that fronted the old O'Neil farmhouse. Irma's mom drove past a small barn and up a curved driveway to the house.

April got out of the car and stood staring at the huge old home. After a minute, she followed Susan inside. The farmhouse was not as she remembered it. The place was clean and stark and, although her father had always hired someone to keep everything preserved, and there was a musty smell in the air. White dust cloths covered the furniture, and all the paintings and pictures were covered with white paper.

"I went ahead and prepared the master bedroom for you," Susan said.

"My old room will be fine," April said.

"With all due respect, your father is dead. This house is yours now."

April allowed irritation into her voice. "No, this isn't my house. It's a mausoleum. A reminder of everything I lost. And when I have my way, I'll pull the damn thing down, board by board."

"This house had housed three generations of the O'Neil family."

"Why the hell do you give a damn?"

"I give a damn, because I once made a promise to a good man that I'd help be responsible for what was most precious to him in the whole world."

April stared at her aunt, and nodded.

"Irma offered to drive you to the hearing, by the way."

April raised an eyebrow. "Irma? Why?"

"She probably wants to talk you out of going."

April gestured to the window and the grounds behind the greenhouse. "Do you think I should just bury the past out there with my father?"

"I don't wanna to tell you what to do with your past, sweetie. But just know that there are those of us who care what you do with your future."

"Still haven't given up on me yet, have you?"

"Never." The woman said the word as though it were a vow.

April climbed the staircase and entered her old room. It hadn't changed much. The childhood toys were gone as were the bedspread and pillows festooned with cartoon characters. But her high school pennant and the picture of her sophomore graduating class were still on the wall. She dropped her bag onto the bed. Breathing deeply, she looked at a photograph on the mantelpiece: young April, on her dad's shoulders, arms raised in triumph. Her father's old stethoscope lay beneath the photograph. April smiled. She returned to the bed and opened her bag. Reaching inside, past a wad of T-shirts, she removed an automatic pistol and a cardboard box full of nine-millimeter cartridges. She dumped the magazine from the gun and, with steady hands, began inserting bullets into it.

She heard a car engine on the drive outside and footsteps on the walk. She finished loading the gun, stuffed it into her belt, and put on a cashmere overcoat she had never before worn, a Christmas gift from Mousers Industries.

She left her room and descended the rear staircase to the kitchen. A young woman stood just inside the pantry, running her fingers over shelves of cans and boxes. It was her one of her only friends, Irma Langinstein.

"Hey," April said. "By the way, the condensed milk is still on the top shelf."

"Didn't your dad ever notice that you got tall enough to reach?"

"Old habits die hard, I guess."

Irma grinned. "Never used to stop us, anyway."

"No, no it didn't."

"You still trying to get kicked out of high school?"

April shook her head. "Turns out you don't actually need an excuse when you had a dad like mime, always on the move, thinking of something crazy awesome to help out with." _And being friends with four mutant ninja turtles that would have something crazy happen to them every other day._ "But you . . . head of your class, top grades, and now assistant intern at the D.A.'s office with you mom. . . . quite the overachiever. Man, a lot has happened."

Irma shrugged. After a while she said, "I miss this place."

"It's nothing without the people who made it what it was. Now there's only me."

Irma stepped close to April and looked up into her eyes. "And what about you?"

"I'm not staying, Irma."

"Oh. I thought maybe this time . . . but you're just back for the hearing? April, I don't suppose there's any way I can convince you not to come."

April stopped smiling and turned away from her. "Someone at this proceeding should stand for my father."

"April, we all loved your father. What Parker did was unforgivable—"

"Then why is your mother's boss letting him go?"

"Because in prison he shared a cell with Don Turtelli. He learned things about Vivaldi and he'll testify in exchange for early parole."

"That's not good enough, Irma. He was only in there for seven months. SEVEN!"

Irma looked away.

April sighed and asked, "Are you still good for a ride to the courthouse?"

"Of course."

April passed the ride into New York City staring out at a metallic blue sky that spread above the city's spires. She and Irma were both silent, which was fine with April.

Irma left the freeway and, a minute later, turned in to a blacktopped lot and parked the Honda in a slot.

April looked at Irma and said, "Irma, this man killed my father. I can't let that pass."

Irma opened her mouth to say something, then apparently changed her mind and merely shrugged.

April spoke more urgently now: "Irma, I need you to understand."

Irma studied April's face as though seeking answers there. Finally, she nodded and silently opened the car door. April, too, got out of the car, knelt quickly, slipped the gun out from under her jacket, and slid it behind the front wheel of the car.

April stood and looked over at Irma, who was giving her a questioning look. "Shoelace," she said.

April followed Irma through a side entrance into New York's Central Courthouse. They ascended a flight of marble steps to a small chamber on the second floor. A five-person panel sat at a long table at the front of the room—four men and, sitting in the middle, Judge Kevin Eastman, a well-set man with black hair and glasses. Four other men sat at a table facing them. April took a chair near the rear wall. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Irma's mom walk towards the group of four and, smiling a greeting, joined them.

April waited while others, men and women in business attire, filtered in and sat. Ten minutes passed. Finally, from a rear door, a red-haired cop entered with a tall man whom April recognized instantly, although she had seen the man only once before, on a cold November night in the shadows. Harry Parker's face was pained and his hair had thinned slightly, but in all other ways, he had not changed.

"We all know why we're here," said Judge Eastman. "Mr. Finch, would you like to begin?"

A handsome man in a dark suit who was sitting next to Irma's mother stood and addressed the panel. "Due to the recent and completely unexpected economic downturn here in the city, this hit working people like Mr. Parker hardest of all. His crime was appalling, but it was motivated not by greed but by desperation. Now, given the exemplary prison record of Mr. Parker, the seven months already served, and his extraordinary level of cooperation with one of this office's most important investigations . . . we strongly endorse Mr. Parker's petition for an early parole."

The judge looked at Parker. "Mr. Parker?"

Parker rose, cleared his throat, and glanced around nervously. "Your Honor, not a day's gone by when I didn't wish I could take back what I did. Sure, I was desperate, like a lot of people. But that doesn't change what I did."

Parker sat.

The five people he had spoken to all nodded, as though on cue, then glanced down at papers on the tabletop. One of them, a florid man wearing tortoiseshell glasses, cleared his throat and said, "I gather a member of the O'Neil family is here today. Does she have anything to say?"

Parker turned his head and scanned the onlookers who sat behind him. For a moment, his gaze locked with April's. Then he lowered his eyes and turned back to the front.

April stood and walked from the room, aware that everyone, including Irma, was watching her. Moving briskly, she went down the steps and out into the parking lot. She knelt by the front of Irma's car, picked up her gun, and crammed it into the left sleeve of her coat.

She leaned against the car, facing the courthouse, and waited.

The side door opened and the red-haired cop came out followed by an officer in another kind of uniform—a security man, or a prison guard, April guessed.

There was a shout from the street and dozens of reporters and television cameramen rushed around from the front of the building, where they had been waiting for Parkers appearance.

"They're taking him out the side," someone shouted.

Parker, surrounded by uniformed cops and men in overcoats—obviously detectives—followed the red-haired cop and the security guard out into the parking lot as the reporters and cameramen stampeded toward them.

"Mr. Parker," someone in the mob called, "any words for the O'Neil family?"

Harry Parker bowed his head and ignored the question.

April straightened and gulped down cold air. Hands in her coat pockets, he began walking toward Parker.

"It's April O'Neil," another reporter yelled and the mob parted, making a path for April.

A bright light mounted on a camera momentarily blinded April and when she could again see clearly, a tall, blond woman holding a tape recorder was approaching Parker. April took her hands from her pockets. She slid her right fingers into her left sleeve and walked faster.

"Harry, hey, Harry Parker," the blond woman said. She was only inches from Parker now. "Vivaldi says hi."

She pulled a revolver from her shoulder bag, aimed it at Parker's chest, and fired: a sound like two boards being slapped together. April saw Parker's eyes widen, and the corners of his lips curl upward, as though he had just experienced a wonderful surprise. Then, as he started to sag against the red-haired cop, his expression changed to one of disbelief, and he slipped from the cop's grasp and crumpled to the blacktop. For a moment there was a confused milling around and then people began yelling.

The other cops in Parker's escort had wrested the woman's gun away and shoved her down before she was dragged off. April was fifteen feet away, her right fingers curled around the gun in her sleeve, staring.

Eventually she realized that someone was shaking her arm and speaking her name. From the corner of her eye, she saw it was a young woman and realized it was Irma.

"Come on, April. We don't need to see this."

April yanked her arm away. "I do."

She watched it all: the arrival of the ambulance, the putting of Harry Parker into a bag and the closing of that bag, the ambulance leaving, belching blue smoke, and the ebb and flow of reporters, cops, medics—watched until everyone was gone except for herself and Irma.

They got into Irma's car. A few blocks away, Irma turned onto the freeway and headed for the suburbs.

"The D.A. couldn't understand why Judge Eastman insisted on making the hearing public," Irma said. "Obviously, Vivaldi paid him off to get Parker out into the open."

"Maybe I should be thanking them," April said, her lips barely moving.

" Are you joking April?! You can't mean that!"

"And what if I do, Irma?! My father deserved justice!"

"You're not talking about justice, April You're talking about revenge!"

"Well, sometimes they're the same."

"They are NEVER the same, April! Justice is about harmony. Revenge is about you making yourself feel better. That's why we have an impartial system."

"Well, your system of justice is broken," April snapped.

Irma's eyes narrowed and her voice was low and edgy. "Don't tell me the system's broken, April. My mother is out there every day trying to fix it while you mope around using your grief as an excuse to do nothing."

She spun the steering wheel and, tires screeching, cut across two traffic lanes to an exit ramp. "I want to show you something."

They went down an off ramp and glided into an area April had never visited. Her father and aunt had always taken him to New York's nicer side: wide, tree-lined streets and fairly decent homes and museums and theaters and parks—places full of smiling people and bright lights. Here, the streets were narrow, cramped, and dark because most of the streetlamps had been broken. They passed blocks of storefronts with sheets of plywood nailed over their windows. Trash littered the gutters and sidewalks, and despite the car's window being closed, April smelled something fetid and decaying. There was occasional movement in the shadowed alleyways—furtive people engaged in furtive transactions.

Irma gestured to the filthy streets. "Look beyond your own pain, April. This city is rotting. Parker being dead doesn't help that—it makes it worse because men like Vivaldi still walk the streets. He carries on flooding our city with crime and drugs, creating new Harry Parkers every day! Vivaldi may not have killed your father, April, but he's destroying everything he helped stand for."

Irma steered the Honda to the curb and turned off the engine. They were parked in front of a nondescript, two-story building. Above a doorway there was a neon sign—CLUB—and a neon arrow pointing to a flight of stairs.

"You want to thank him for that," Irma said. "Here you go. This is Vivaldi's main hangout. It's no secret—everyone knows where to find him. But no one will touch him because he keeps the bad people rich and the good people scared."

Irma poked a forefinger into April's chest, hard, and asked, "What chance does New York have when the good people do nothing?"

"I'm not one of your 'good people,' Irma. Parker took that from me."

"What do you mean?"

April pulled up her left sleeve and removed the gun. "All these months I wanted to kill him. And now I can't."

Irma looked at the weapon lying on April's palm, gleaming in the glow from the neon sign, and then up into her eyes. "You were going to kill him yourself."

She slapped her. April did not respond. Irma slapped her again, and again and again.

April shoved the gun into a jacket pocket.

Irma stared down at her lap for a full minute, crying silently. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and said, "Just another coward with a gun. Your father would be ashamed of you."

Without replying, April opened her door and got out of the car.

She watched the taillights of Irma's car vanish around a corner and then turned to orient herself. She was in the harbor area. Bulky shapes of freighters and tankers were silhouetted against a sky brightened by the reflection of the city's lights and there was a mingled odor of oil and salt in the air. April walked to the water, her footfalls echoing hollowly on the boards of a pier. She took the gun from her pocket and held it up to let the stern lights of one of the ships shine on it. She turned it slowly, squinting, as though she were examining some unimaginably alien artifact, then flung it into the water.

She walked from the pier back onto the street, her shoes crunching on broken glass, and went to the CLUB sign and down the stairs beneath it. She passed through a metal door and gasped: the air was a brew of smoke, sweat, perfume, cologne, and alcohol. April wiped her suddenly watering eyes on her sleeve and stood, trying to acclimate herself to the noise of a hundred conversations, a hundred raucous laughs. She had never seen so many people jammed into such a small space.

Vivaldi was not hard to spot. He was at a corner table surrounded by men in suits and women in cocktail dresses, spreading his hands, making a point.

April crossed and stood in front of him. His eyes did not betray him- he was not stirred in any way by her appearance.

"You're taller than you look in the papers, O'Neil," Vivaldi said in a surprisingly pleasant voice.

April's fists clenched. Every word he spoke was an insult to her family's name. Yet a burly man in jeans and a blue jacket appeared at April's side and ran his hands over April's body. The man looked at Vivaldi and said, "Clean."

Vivaldi said, "No gun? I'm insulted."

She snorted. "Only a coward needs a gun," April replied.

Vivaldi gestured to a chair and the man in the blazer pulled it away from the table. Only a half second processed in her mind as she watched him. He was inviting her? Very well. April sat.

"Coulda just sent me a thank-you note," Vivaldi said to April.

April's heart was ice as she stared into the crime lord before her. "I didn't come here to thank you. I came to show you that not everyone in this city is afraid of you."

Vivaldi laughed. "Just those that know me, kid. Look around. You'll see two councilmen, a union official, a couple off-duty cops, a judge . . ."

April recognized one of the men who had been at the hearing sitting at a nearby table. When April returned her attention to Vivaldi, she felt the cold metal of a large butcher knife being place against her throat. When she turned back, the tension in her gut exploded and she trembled.

"Now, I don't have a second's hesitation of choppin' ya head off right in front of them," he said as he let that gaze bore into her eyes, "that's power you can't buy. The power of fear."

April gulped. "I'm not afraid of you." Truthfully, she wasn't scared of him. Death even. Her body may react and anticipate injury accordingly, but her mind was numb to the sense of danger.

Vivaldi grinned and loosed his pressure against her throat. He said, "Because you think you've got nothing to lose. But you haven't thought it through . . . you haven't thought about your assistant lady friend from the D.A.'s . . . or that sweet little auntie of yours . . ."

April looked away. He was more informed than she had anticipated. Vivaldi slid the knife beneath his jacket. "People from your world always have so much to lose. That's why they keep me in business. I stop the desperate heading uptown the way Harry Parker did. You think because your daddy got shot you know the ugly side of life, but you don't," he said, shaking his head.

"You've never tasted desperation—you're April O'Neil, daughter of one of the most famous men in New York," he waved a hand around as he leant back, "You'd have to go a thousand miles to meet someone who didn't know your name," he said as April felt her jaw tighten further. He looked right back at her, that power cascading from him like shadow. "So don't- don't come down here with all your anger . . . trying to prove something to yourself. This is a world you'll never understand. And you'll always fear what you don't understand."

As April sat there, comprehending his words and meaning, the crime lord took action. Vivaldi nodded and the man in the jacket punched April in the face, knocking her off her chair. Two other men hauled April to her feet and it began: a brief, savage beating, perpetrated in front of a hundred club-goers. The room quieted, and for a while the silence was broken only by grunts and the sound of blows.

"Enough," Vivaldi said and the man who was hitting April stopped. Vivaldi rose and came close to April. She spat at his feet, and he shoved his foot away, chuckling. "You got spirit, girlie, I'll give you that. More than your old man, anyway.

April paused, forgetting the pain and soreness of her face, ribs, and back. He was talking about her parents. What did he know? What else could he know!?

Vivaldi read her expression like a newspaper headline. He grinned. "Parker told me about the night he killed your father. He said your old man begged for mercy."

The cold rage in April swelled. Her muscles wouldn't pull or tug or fight against the pressure of the thugs behind her. All she could do is tremble in hate as Vivaldi leaned closer, taking her dead in the eyes as he told her-

"Begged. Like a dog."

April growled. Vivaldi jerked a thumb in the direction of a rear door and the thugs dragged April through it and flung her into the street. With a moment, feeling the scratches of worn concrete against her arms, April began to collect herself. She had landed half in a puddle, and felt the cold, stinking fetid water splash her face.

April pushed herself to her feet and staggered to a wall. She leaned against it and wiped the back of her hand over her mouth, tasting something copper, recognizing it as blood, wondering if she was going to lose any teeth.

_All those people, watching me be beaten . . . What had Vivaldi said?_ "That's power you can't buy. The power of fear." she told herself that again.

Hateful towards Vivaldi as she was, it was something she wouldn't forget.

She shoved away from the wall and walked toward the dock, aware that she was being observed from doorways and alleys. She approached an oil barrel with flames licking out of its top.

A man huddled near the barrel, warming himself, said, "Maybe ya shoulda tipped better."

His sarcasm was lost upon her. April drew closer; the glow of the flames revealed a face with grime in deeply etched lines and a splotchy beard. April stared thoughtfully into the flames as the man rubbed his hands over them.

"You have a name?" April asked the homeless man.

"Name's Joey. Last name's none a' your business."

April removed her wallet and gave a wad of money to the homeless man. He blinked, uncertain if what he was looking at was real. When his mind registered the authenticity of it all, he looked to her.

"For what?" Joey asked.

"Your jacket."

"Okay," Joey nodded. April dropped her wallet into the fire. Joey laughed. April shrugged out of her overcoat and bundled it into a ball, eyeing the fire as well.

"Let me have it," Joey shouted. "That's a good coat."

They traded: a nine-hundred-dollar, fawn-colored, cashmere overcoat for a frayed and torn Navy pea coat that had cost some sailor a ten spot when it was new three decades ago.

"Be careful who sees you with that," April said. "They're going to come looking for me."

Joey was buttoning the overcoat. "Who?" April smiled- a grim reminder of something she once did, in a different life. This was it for her. The last step before taking the dive.

"Everyone."

April smiled, saluted Joey with two fingers, and walked onto the pier, threading her way among stacks of freight containers. A horn blared, deep and loud, and April looked toward one of the ships, its hull trembling as its engines churned the water. April ran toward it, never looking back.


	5. Life at the Monastery

The following morning, Oroku Saki and April, now wearing cold-weather gear, stood on the balcony of the monastery. The sun glared on a vast sheet of ice, a glacier that lay below them. April had just finished telling Saki the details of her fathers' death, with . . . . certain details left out. She was silent for perhaps ten minutes, enjoying the cold, clear air flowing into her body, and the sight of the hard blue sky above them.

Saki broke the silence by asking April a question. "Do you still hold your friends responsible for your father's death?"

"No. But the anger I have towards the people who helped kill him outweighs the guilt I hold towards my friends," April replied.

Saki nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. He led April into the monastery's main chamber, where April had first entered the building. Groups of warriors, perhaps fifty in all, were training: sparring, shadow boxing, leaping, and kicking. April and Saki walked to one of the pillars, where a ninja was hanging upside down. Saki motioned the man to come down and when he did, Saki showed April the secret of the feat: spikes spaced along a gauntlet that the ninja had driven into the pillar.

"The ninja is thought to be invisible," Saki explained. "But invisibility is largely a matter of patience."

April and Saki climbed a short flight of steps to a mezzanine full of stacked boxes and bottles. Several ninjas were pouring powders into packets, obviously making compounds. April knew that the ninja's art had originated in Japan, but these ninjas were a mixed lot: Asians, East Indians, some Caucasians.

Saki took a pinch of gray powder from an open box and threw it down. There was a flash of light and a loud bang. April flinched and Saki smiled.

"Ninjitsu employ explosives," Saki said.

"As weapons?"

"Or distractions. Theatricality and deception are powerful agents. You must become more than just a man in the mind of your opponent."

April took some powder from the box and, with a snap of her wrist, dashed it on the floor. This time April did not flinch at the flash and the noise.

After a lunch of rice and vegetables, Saki gave April a straight-bladed Chinese sword and a pair of gauntlets similar to those the ninja had worn.

Saki equipped himself identically and led April down the steep, snowy path to the glacier.

"You're training me to fight with a blade?" April asked, feeling the weight of the weapon in her fingers. "Why not a gun?"

"The man who killed your father —he used a firearm?"

"Yes."

"Was he a great warrior? Was he even an efficient killer?"

April resiliently nodded. "No, he was a thug, but—"

"The weapon is nothing, the person who wields it everything. Guns are crude and impersonal and a blade is not. With a blade, you do more than learn combat. You develop character."

Saki unsheathed his sword, held it in front of himself, and said, "I suppose 'en garde' would be appropriate here."

April and Oroku Saki circled each other. She clutched the blade with both hands, staring at her opponent with as much focus as she could muster. This would not be a street fight between several angered thugs or a body guard- heck, even several cops couldn't make her this nervous. This was a trained assassin with skills she had lost to once before.

Forget winning; she had to put everything into this just to stay alive.

Oroku Saki's blade flashed forward, a thrust aimed at April's chest. April deflected the blow with her gauntlet-sheathed arm. Saki glided to his left, frozen breath streaming from his nostrils. April, sliding to her right to again face Saki, heard the ice beneath her creak and shift. And the muted gurgle of running water. As the distance grew between them April glanced down and swallowed. Death awaited in front of her, and death awaited below her.

"Mind your surroundings, always," Saki said.

April felt her body clench as the initiative was right. She raised her weapon above her head and slashed down at her opponent. Even as he blocked, she could feel the expert training in each flowing step he took. He merely glided his weapon underneath hers and avoided, returning the favor with a slash at her neck. She avoided backwards and wobbled- trying to keep her footing.

They fenced. April thrust and Saki parried, April thrust again and Saki turned aside the point of April's blade with his own. Their faces were inches apart; April could feel the heat of Saki's breath on her cheek.

"Your fathers' deaths was not your friends faults," Saki said conversationally.

April made to push Saki off, yet as her body twitched in response, he then pushed closer, grasping her blade with his armored gauntlet. "It was your father's own."

Aprils mind was stunned. Drained of energy and her awareness, she stared into the eyes belonging to the man who stated this. They made no apology, silent or otherwise. This remark consumed April with rage. She abandoned all pretense of skill and swung her sword. Saki caught April's blade in the scallops of his gauntlet and rotated his arm, wrenching April's sword from her grasp. The sword skidded across the ice, leaving April alone with her own gauntlets and hate.

"Anger will not change the fact that your father failed to act," Saki continued, as though he was discussing the weather.

"The man had a gun," April blurted. She swung forward with her fists, and Saki pushed her back.

As April slid back to her knees, he stared, pacing between her and her sword. "Would that stop you?"

April finally stood and spat into the air. "I've had training—"

Saki reeled on her. "The training is nothing!" April barely had time to prepare for his attacks. No longer did he cut and slice. He hammered the sword into her blocks, knocking her back feet by feet with each slash. "The will is everything!" he roared as his last swipe tossed April onto the ice, and she sprawled out. "The will to act."

April stood back up, feeling the heavy toll those attacks had taken onto her forearms. They pulsed with her heartbeat and throbbed with their own separate pain. Nothing had been broken, as she had expected, but bruises were severe. She had to act smart now. The anger hadn't gotten her anywhere with him.

She had to win. Not 'beat him', just win.

Saki slashed downward at April, who blocked the strike with her crossed, gauntleted forearms. Then April dropped and dove between Saki's legs, sliding to where her sword had stopped its skid. She grabbed it and pivoted, her legs sweeping toward Saki's lower body. Saki jumped straight up and April grabbed Saki's left foot and yanked. Saki fell onto his back as April scrambled to her feet and aimed her sword at Saki's bare throat. The point stopped only inches from Saki's flesh. Saki lay still, his arms at his sides.

The faintest, surprised smile broke her lips. "Yield," April commanded.

"You haven't beaten me," Saki replied. "You've sacrificed sure footing for a killing stroke."

April glanced below her too late. Saki tapped the ice beneath April's feet with the flat of his sword. There was a loud crack and the ice tilted and splintered and April plunged into the freezing water.

Saki watched April flounder for almost a full minute, then reached down to help her up and out.

Later that evening, next to a blazing campfire near the glacier, April shed her jacket and shirt and rubbed her arms, trying to control the violence of her shivering.

"Rub your chest," Saki told her. "Your arms will take care of themselves."

April began to rub her torso.

"You're stronger than your father," Saki said.

"You didn't know my father." April spat.

"No." Saki said, "But I know the rage that drives you . . . that impossible anger strangling your grief until your loved ones' memory is just poison in your veins. And one day you wish the person you loved had never existed so you'd be spared the pain."

April stopped what she was doing and looked at Saki as though she had just found something amazing.

"I wasn't always here in the mountains," Saki continued. "Once, I had a . . . . lover. My great pride. She was taken from me. Like you, I was forced to learn that there are those without decency, who must be fought without pity or hesitation. Your anger gives you great power, but if you let it, it will destroy you. As it almost did me."

April took her shirt from where it had been drying near the fire and slipped it on. "What stopped it?"

"Vengeance."

"That's no help to me."

"Why not?" Saki questioned.

April never answered.

* * *

April was aware that the months of brute labor on ancient ships had physically changed her, coarsened her soft girl's palms and thickened the muscles of her arms, chest, thighs. She had thought that by the time she was locked in the Chinese prison, the change was complete. But at Suì zhǐ jī's monastery, she realized that her months at sea had only begun her transformation. She learned different kinds of power, soem that came from the knowledge and efficient use of her body's parts, and not just raw, untutored strength. Her mind, too, was altering. She was coming to depend on a relaxed alertness rather than reasoned thought, which was sometimes slow and not always reliable.

Her training, of both mind and body, was of a kind she could not have imagined possible, and she reveled in it. She slept, with a dozen others, on a thin futon placed on the floor of a chamber below the monastery's main hall; she knew that there were other sleeping chambers both inside the monastery and in outbuildings.

The monastery itself was divided into three tiers. The bottom, where April slept, was barracks-style living quarters, food storage facilities, a kitchen, and a dining area consisting of several long, uncovered tables with backless benches along either side. The ground floor was almost completely occupied by the huge main hall, where April had first entered, and included Suì zhǐ jī's throne, which was seldom in use. At its rear were two locked doors—a storage area of some kind, April guessed. Once, she spotted a line of workers carrying crates that bore red warning signs in four languages into one of the forbidden chambers: explosives. April wondered what use they might possibly be put to.

The top floor of the monastery was, on three sides, a mezzanine, with exits to the balcony that overlooked the glacier. The fourth side was another forbidden area: the living quarters of Suì zhǐ jī and Oroku Saki. There were several outbuildings that, April concluded, were for storage.

* * *

Almost every day April arose before dawn, wakened by the striking of a gong—almost, because sometimes she and her mates were not roused until the sun was high above the neighboring peaks. No explanation for the delay was ever given. After an hour's running along the ridge on which the buildings stood, often through dense snow and icy winds, she ate the first of two daily meals, usually vegetables and rice, or a grain April could not identify. To drink, there was a small cup of tea.

At irregular intervals, the morning run was canceled and April and her mates picked their way down the trail to the hamlet April had passed through on her way to the monastery. There, they found stacks of boxes and sacks: supplies. They each lifted something and, sliding and stumbling, struggled back up the mountain. Once, April saw the little boy she had spoken to, peeking around the corner of a hut. At other times, during the warmer summer months, she and her mates were put to work in vegetable gardens near the hamlet.

"It is important that you feel a connection to what sustains you," Saki once explained.

The regimen was not unlike what she knew of how religious communities and, for that matter, military boot camps operated. After breakfast, the group disbanded and each of the trainees did something unique to themselves. In April's case, this was what she later realized were exercises and techniques designed to increase his flexibility and litheness. She did yoga stretches and trained on gymnast's gear: rings, rails, parallel bars, and vaulting horses. Gradually, her once bulky muscles grew smaller and sleeker, thinning her arms and legs and smoothing her stomach and abs. Soon, she was able to stretch and bend and twist her limbs and body in ways she would have once considered impossible, if not freakish.

Then, for several months, she did very little that was physically demanding. Saki would give her puzzles, or using cards, flash a random series of numbers and shapes in front of his eyes and demand she reproduce them on paper. Or ask her to work arithmetic problems mentally. Or have her sit in certain positions for hours, or just stand alone in a dark room or on the glacier. She was told that she was in the process of learning what she already knew and that this was not a conundrum, just a simple fact—one of the few times any explanation of any kind was offered.

When April resumed her physical training, she was swifter and stronger than ever.

* * *

At noon each day, April joined her fellow trainees for the day's second and final meal, usually identical to what they had had for breakfast, but occasionally spiced with a sliver of fish or smoked meat. There was no tea at this second meal, just water from the glacier. April had eaten in the world's premier restaurants with her father, both at home and in Europe and Asia during the occasional vacation, had dined on the finest efforts of the finest chefs, and had never enjoyed any food so much as Suì zhǐ jīs starkly simple fare. Not because of the food itself, though it was inevitably fresh and well prepared, but because she was learning to really taste what went into her mouth.

After lunch, more exercises. At dusk, another run outside and then, as the sun was vanishing below the mountains and long shadows spread across the glacier, to bed.

April was always asleep within seconds of touching the futon. If she had dreams, she did not remember them.

She sensed that nothing was done randomly—that every activity, however inconsequential, was part of a carefully planned curriculum.

She had been in the monastery for months before she was taught actual combat and her tutors were not kind. On the contrary, Saki and the ninjas who taught April were unrelentingly critical and showed absolutely no tolerance of blunders. And blunder she did. She often felt as though she were wearing cardboard boxes for shoes and concrete gloves. She had imagined herself well versed in martial arts from his shipboard ordeals, the adventures she had had in ports of call, where she, after the first few humiliating months, had won most of her fights. She had even learned from a few different teachers that she had met in her travels. But against the opponents she faced in the monastery, she was clumsy, oafish, more clown than combatant.

But she learned. And she did not make the same mistake twice.

For a long period, she was physically challenged to her utmost, forced to defend herself until her breath exploded from her lungs and she could feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, sweat coating her entire body. Then, abruptly, Saki would stop the combat and have April do breathing and visualization exercises. And then she would again be attacked. Eventually, April decided that the purpose of this drill was to teach her to be as calm during combat as she was afterward—to train her never to allow body chemistry to impair her judgment. Saki, as usual, neither confirmed nor denied April's conclusion.

April seldom saw Suì zhǐ jī and wondered if their mysterious host even lived at the monastery. Sometimes, though, Suì zhǐ jī appeared on his raised platform, or on the balcony overlooking the glacier, and watched, erect and motionless, his hands hidden in his sleeves. He never spoke, nor made any kind of sound at all, but his presence was always palpable.

* * *

Suì zhǐ jī was on the platform the morning April was fighting with a slender Japanese woman of her own size and build. Someone shouted her name and for perhaps a half second April was distracted. Could she have been called by Suì zhǐ jī himself? No, the voice had been Saki's. Her opponent struck twice, to the chest and jaw, and April dropped.

When April fully regained her senses, Suì zhǐ jī was gone.

Saki stepped forward and looked down at April with disgust. "Childish, O'Neil."

"Resume!" Saki ordered, motioning to the Japanese woman who had knocked April down, and a few seconds later, April was punching, blocking, kicking, ignoring everything except the opponent in front of her.

So intent was she on her training, so involved in the tasks April set for her, that April all but forgot that months were passing, that the color of the sky and the angle at which the sun hit the glacier changed and the air both inside and outside the monastery was warmer, then colder.

Later, she reckoned that she had been at the monastery just under a year and that, after the initial period of adjustment, she was happy in the rambling building above the glacier. She forgot her old life, in New York and on campuses and the jet-set watering holes of the world and, eventually, her memory of her parents also dimmed. What was the color of her father's hair? Of her mother's eyes? How did they sound in the morning? At bedtime? What about her friends? Splinter's stoic expression, Leonardo and his Space Heros show, what did Mikey's laugh sound like again? Her thoughts also, drifted to Donatello.

Donnie.

No matter how hard she tried, he was the one person she remembered as clear as day. That silly gapped tooth grin, the way he would blush and giggle when she would get close to him. She missed him. She could summon the memories by force—she had learned that she could summon any memory by force—but they did not come unbidden into her dreams now. But the sight of her father sprawled in the street amid bloody pearls—that did not diminish, either nor did the hot bite of hate that inevitably accompanied it.

She never learned the names of her fellow trainees, and there had been hundreds of them. Saki had made it known that any unnecessary fraternization would be severely punished and no one doubted him. But April felt close to these anonymous men and women of varied nationalities, closer than she had ever felt to anyone except her mother, father, aunt and the turtles. They may have been nameless, but they were pieces of something of which she, too, was a part and that gave her a commonality with them that often felt like affection.

None of them stayed for long. A new group seemed to arrive every few weeks or so, receive instruction, and leave. Only April remained, although her skills were plainly superior to those of everyone except Saki. She would ask, "Does Suì zhǐ jī have something special in mind for me?" and Saki would turn away, refusing to answer.

Eventually, she stopped asking.

* * *

Saki remained aloof, always the savagely forthright instructor, never the friendly mentor, but a bond grew between him and April regardless. April could not have given it a label, or even described it. In neither her personal experience nor her reading had she encountered anything like it. But she knew it was there, as she knew she had blood in her veins.

Was it possible to love a man who did little more than brutalize one? Was April O'Neil, this pampered child of privilege, suffering from some form of the Stockholm syndrome, becoming emotionally attached to her enemy? She had questions she could not possibly answer, at least not yet, not here. She did not forget them, but she did not worry about them, either.

There was a scream from the far end of the monastery. April saw two warriors dragging the man who had screamed toward an iron cage.

"Who is he?" April asked, getting to her feet.

"He was a farmer. Then he tried to take his neighbor's land and became a murderer. Now he's a prisoner."

The portly farmer was locked in the cage and the cage was winched ten feet off the floor.

"What will happen to him?" April asked.

"Justice. Crime cannot be tolerated. Criminals thrive on the indulgence of society's 'understanding.' You know this."

April nodded, staring at the man in the cage.

"Or when you lived among the criminals . . . did you make the same mistake as your father and friends?" Saki asked. "Did you start to pity them?"

April remembered the feeling of a hollow belly and a wide-eyed child in an alley and the taste of a ripe plum.

She said, "The first time you steal so that you don't starve, you lose many assumptions about the simple nature of right and wrong."

Once again, Saki didn't answer her.


	6. Facing Her Fears

That night, as April layed on her futon, Saki, clad in a ninja uniform, a short sword slung across his back, came to the doorway and spoke her name. April rose, dressed, and followed Saki across a moonlit courtyard to the throne room. Inside, they went to a workbench set against a wall, and Saki said, "You traveled the world to understand the criminal mind and conquer your fear."

Saki took from his pocket a dried flower, the shriveled blue poppy April had long ago carried to the monastery. Saki put it in a stone mortar and used a stone pestle to grind it to dust. "But a criminal isn't complicated," he said. "And what you really fear is inside yourself. You fear your own power. Your own anger. The drive to do great or terrible things . . . You must journey inward."

Saki poured the dust into a small brazier, struck a long wooden match, and set it aflame. A thin column of smoke rose, twisted, curled. Saki motioned April closer. "Drink in your fears. Face them. You are ready."

April understood without further instruction. She inhaled the smoke and shook her head. Time roiled and shifted inside her skull and she saw:

. . . herself falling from a helicopter . . .

. . . screeching bats exploding from the streets and tearing at her . . .

. . . Father staring down at a red splotch on the snowy white shirt that spread outward from a small, black hole . . .

. . . bloody pearls spilling past April's face and clattering lightly on the pavement . . .

April shook her head violently and blinked her eyes. So real, the visions are so real . . .

Saki tugged a ninja mask over his head. He pulled a second mask from under his jacket and handed it to April.

"To conquer fear you must become fear," he said as April put on the mask. "You must bask in the fear of other men . . . and men fear most what they cannot see."

Saki raised a hand and a dozen ninjas congealed from the shadows: not the trainees April had come to know by sight, if not by name—no, although these warriors were completely covered by their uniforms and masks, April somehow knew they were fully trained, and she had no doubt that they were ruthless.

"It is not enough to be a man," Saki said. "You have to become an idea . . . a terrible thought . . . a wraith—"

Suddenly Saki drew his sword and slashed at April's throat—a strike that would have decapitated April if it had connected.

It did not: April had spun out of its path.

The ninjas closed on April, surrounding her. Then they parted to reveal a long, wide, flat wooden box: a coffin for a giant? April gazed at it, still disoriented from the smoke she had inhaled.

From the darkness, Saki spoke: "Embrace your worst fear . . ."

Cautiously, April approached the box, lifted the lid, and peered inside. For a moment, she heard the flapping of leathery wings—

And the scene that was still echoing in her memory became real: screeching bats tearing at her . . .

April dove away from the box, rolled, staring at the bats, blinking and flinching . . .

"Become one with the darkness," Saki said from some great distance.

The ninjas attacked.

April should have been terrified. These men were killers and all had survived the ordeals that had been visited on April and they outnumbered her at least twelve to one. They were armed, and her only weapon was her body. They were alert and she was still groggy from the smoke.

She should have been terrified, and immediately killed, and if she had taken even a second to think about her situation, she would have been. But she did not. No, she merely did as, without knowing it, she had been learning to do all these years. She became fully in the moment and let a wisdom deeper and vastly quicker than thought guide her movements.

A ninja jabbed. April pivoted and kicked the man's arm, and as the sword flew from the man's grasp April sent a palm strike to the man's chin and caught the sword as it fell.

A blade ripped April's sleeve and the skin beneath it. April retaliated by swiping her blade against her attacker's arm and leaping over and behind the box.

In the rafters, bats flapped and screeched.

On the floor, April whirled and leaped, pivoted, thrust, parried, moving as silently as fog among the black-clad assassins.

Saki leaped forward into the center of the ninjas. He kicked the face of a ninja with a torn sleeve. The person fell to their knees and Saki put his sword to their throat.

"Your sleeve, O'Neil," he said. "Bad mistake. You cannot leave any sign."

From behind Saki, April said, "I haven't."

The edge of her sword was against Saki's throat.

Saki glanced at the ninjas. Five of them had slashed sleeves. He gestured and the ninjas fell back, lowering their weapons.

From across the chamber there came the sound of clapping. Suì zhǐ jī sat on his throne, watching and slapping his long palms together.

"Impressive," he said in English. It was the first time April had heard him in months.

April pulled off her mask and bowed her head in acknowledgment of the compliment.

The ninjas sat. Saki escorted April to the platform on which Suì zhǐ jī sat and stood beside her. Suì zhǐ jī rose, his robes rustling, and led April and Saki to a smoking brazier with a branding iron sticking from the glowing coals. Then Suì zhǐ jī began to speak in Urdu.

Saki translated: "We have purged your fear. You are ready to lead these men. You are ready to become a member of the League of Assassin's."

Suì zhǐ jī again struck his palms together, not in applause but command. Two ninjas dragged the portly, frightened prisoner from a doorway and shoved him down next to the brazier. April recognized him immediately: the farmer, the murderer who had been caged.

Suì zhǐ jī pointed a thin, straight finger at the prisoner and spoke. Saki translated: "First you must demonstrate your commitment to justice."

Saki handed April a sword. April looked at the prisoner, whose eyes were pleading pools of terror.

"No," April said, addressing Suì zhǐ jī. "I'm not an executioner."

Saki said, "Your compassion is a weakness your enemies will not share."

"That's why it's so important. It separates me from them."

"You want to fight criminals. This man is a murderer."

"This man should be tried."

"By whom?" Saki demanded. "Corrupt bureaucrats? Criminals mock society's laws. You know this better than most."

Suì zhǐ jī stepped forward and in thickly accented English said, "You cannot lead men unless you are prepared to do what is necessary to defeat evil."

"Where would I be leading these men?" April asked him.

"New York City. As one of New York's favorite daughter's, you will be ideally placed to strike at the heart of criminality."

"How?"

"The city's time has come. Like Constantinople or Rome before it—grounds for suffering and injustice—it is beyond saving and must be allowed to die . . . This is the most important function of the League. It is one we have performed for centuries. New York . . . must be destroyed."

April turned to Saki. "You can't believe this."

"Suì zhǐ jī has rescued us from the darkest corners of our own hearts," Saki replied. "What he asks in return is the courage to do what is necessary."

April said, "I'll go back to New York, and I will fight men like this. But I will not be an executioner."

Saki's reply was whispered, almost a plea: "April, for your own sake . . . there is no turning back . . ."

April raised her sword. The prisoner raised his gaze to April and his lips moved soundlessly.

April struck downward, her blade missing the prisoner's neck by inches and hitting the white-hot branding iron, flipping it off the brazier. It arced high into the air and spun into the door of the room where explosives were stored. The door instantly smoldered and tiny tongues of flame appeared where the iron had struck.

"What are you doing!?" Saki shouted.

"What's necessary," April said and hit Saki head with the flat of her sword.

Suì zhǐ ji had a Chinese sword in his hands almost instantly. He thrust at April and April deflected the blade with her own. April returned the attack, driving Suì zhǐ jī backward and off the platform.

An explosion shook the hall and flaming debris spouted from the explosives room.

Suì zhǐ jī ignored the fire and noise and renewed his assault. April's eyes stung and she coughed; she could barely see Suì zhǐ jī through the smoke. Sje was aware of men running past her, scrambling toward the doors. But she dared not join them: the moment she turned her back, she knew, Suì zhǐ jī would kill her.

For an instant, fear intruded into April's consciousness: This is Suì zhǐ jī! This is the master! I can't beat him!

But even as this thought flitted across her mind, April knew it was wrong. The man before her was formidable, true, but only highly skilled, not superhuman. April had fought tougher opponents, Saki among them. Perhaps Suì zhǐ jī had erected a reputation and was hiding behind it. Perhaps it was more illusion than reality.

Then April stopped thinking and again became one with the moment.

Sje blinked and saw Suì zhǐ jī again charging at jer. A second explosion shook the hall and suddenly a slab of roof, fully ablaze, fell onto Suì zhǐ jī, burying him.

I didn't want him to die . . .

The back of the monastery was a holocaust. April ran for the front, jumping over chunks of wood and broken furniture that littered the floor.

Oroku Saki lay directly in her path, between her and the exit. In the flicker of the flames, April could see that Saki's head was bloody and his hair was partially burned away. And it also almost looks like the flesh of his face was melting off. Almost like . . .

Another explosion snapped April out of her trace. April knelt and shouted Saki's name: no response, April got her shoulder under Saki's and hoisted the unconscious man into a fireman's carry. But she could go no farther; a sheet of flame was now between her and safety.

She looked around, trying to see through the dense smoke. The steps to the mezzanine were still intact. April, with Saki over her shoulders, ran up them. She went onto the balcony. A third explosion rocked the boards beneath her feet and some of them tore free of their moorings. In a second or two, the balcony would collapse.

There was fire directly below, gushing from the explosives room. If they fell into it, they would be incinerated.

April kicked aside the balcony railing, took two steps back, ran forward, and leaped. Her trajectory carried her and Saki over the flames and down a steep slope covered with ice. They landed with a jolt and Saki slipped from April's grasp. Both slid toward a cliff, a four-hundred-foot drop to the glacier below. April's groping hand found a rock and closed around it. Her momentum halted. But Saki did not; his rotating body was gaining speed.

April released her hold on the rock, pivoted on her stomach, straightened, and hands clasped in front of her, she dove headfirst down the slope. Only inches from the edge of the cliff, April caught Saki's upper arm. Both of them continued to slide. April raised her gauntlet-clad forearm and smashed the bronze scallops into the ice. She and Saki stopped, with Saki's legs dangling over the cliff.

April allowed herself a minute to calm her breathing before digging the scallops on her other arm into the ice, a bit farther up the slope.

This will take a while . . .

* * *

Some time later, she dragged Saki over the lip of the slope and onto flat ground, slushy from melted ice. Nothing much was left of the monastery, just the stone foundation and a few gaunt, blackened timbers, bits of flame dancing along them, silhouetted against the afternoon sky. Despite the ice, there had been neither rain nor snowfall for weeks. The monastery had been dry as kindling. The snow around the ruin was trampled, some tracks leading to the trail down the mountain, others to the path to the glacier. April wondered if the ninjas had a planned escape route or if they had merely run from the inferno.

April saw no one. She considered going into the remains of the monastery to see if she could find Suì zhǐ jī. But Suì zhǐ jī was surely dead and Saki might soon be if he did not get help.

She shook Saki: no response. She hoisted Saki onto her shoulders and went to the trail leading to the hamlet. Now trembling with exhaustion, April descended it. She arrived as the sun was reddening the eastern peaks. As usual, the tiny settlement seemed to be deserted. She pounded the door of the first hut she came to and it immediately opened. Inside stood the old man April had spoken to on her initial trek up the mountain. April entered and, heeding the old man's gesture, lay Saki down on some straw mats. The old man wiped blood from Saki's temple, put his ear to his chest, felt his pulse. The old man nodded. For a moment, April and the old man stood on either side of Saki, looking at each other. Then April shrugged and went to the door.

"I tell him you save him life," the old man said in accented broken English.

"Tell him . . . I have an ailing ancestor who needs me." April flattened her palms in front of her chest and bowed her head.

The old man pointed to a stain on April's jacket. "It blood. Do you wish clean?"

"Not necessary."

April left the hut. She looked up at where she had come from and saw wisps of smoke rising against the evening sky, and then down, at the trail to the village and prison. Which way? No choice, really. She started toward the trail. The door to another of the huts opened and the little boy she had seen during her first visit ran out, carrying a bundle wrapped in sackcloth. He handed it to April and, without saying anything or waiting to be thanked, vanished into the hut and closed the door. April unwrapped the bundle enough to see what was inside: a clay bowl full of rice with a chunk of brown bread and two crude chopsticks on top. Lunch. April bowed to the boy's hut and moved down the trail.

* * *

The air was chilly, but not cold, as it had been on the mountaintop, and the next morning, bright sun gradually warmed April. When it was directly overhead, she perched on a boulder, opened the bundle, and ate the rice and bread.

The sun was low when she finally reached the trail-head and continued past it on the road the army truck had taken a year(?) earlier to the town—or small city?—near the prison. Her plan, such as it was, was to beg for food and money until she had enough for a telephone call to the United States—to New York and Susan. It might take days, but it would probably be faster than finding a berth on a ship bound for America.

But She got lucky. As She was hunkering down at a roadside near the marketplace, now almost deserted as darkness inched over the area, she met an old shipmate, a bosun's mate, who was accompanied by a slender woman whose eyes were downcast and whose whole demeanor was one of extreme shyness.

"Hello, my old shipmate," the bosun yelled in breath laden with rum. "Remember me—Hector. I beat you up plenty."

"I still bear the scars," April answered, grinning and shaking Hector's hand.

"Guess what? I am husband now. How you like that?"

"Congratulations!"

Hector said that he and the woman had just gotten married, that very afternoon, mere hours ago, and were celebrating and did his dear old shipmate want for anything, anything at all in this blessed world? In the end, after more hand-shaking and much back-pounding, the bosun's mate gave April the money she needed and, with promises that they would get together soon, put his arm around his new wife's shoulders and stumbled toward a nearby inn.

April located a merchant who offered long-distance telephone service and talked her into remaining open long enough for April to make her call.

There was no answer. Perhaps Susan was having one of her weekly nights away from the house. April left a message on the answering machine and, thanking the merchant for her kindness, left to seek a place to sleep.

She finally settled for a culvert. She put a thin layer of dried grass on the rounded bottom and lay on it. She was cold and uncomfortable and long ago that would have been a problem. But now, she simply accepted the cold and the discomfort, instead of fighting them, and slept for the five hours she needed.

The next morning, just after sunrise, she walked around, seeking food. She was not discomfortingly hungry, not yet, but she had eaten only the boy's rice and bread in the last day and her body would need fuel soon. She saw a mendicant monk, barefoot and wearing an orange robe, going from house to house and holding out a bowl into which householders put a morsel of food. April approached the monk, who seemed to immediately guess what April might want, and gave her half of what was in the bowl.

At about eight, April returned to where she had made the call to Susan. The merchant was waiting for her. Susan had already returned the call and made the necessary arrangements, which the merchant read to April from a sheet of lined paper. Again, April thanked the merchant and began to follow Susan's instructions.

Two days later April was in Kathmandu, standing at the end of an unpaved landing strip. There was a corrugated steel shed at the other end, with a pole flying a windsock, and nothing else. A dot appeared in the eastern sky, black against a huge, billowing cloud, and grew larger and resolved itself into an airplane, which landed and taxied to a stop. It was a O'Neil Enterprises jet, gleaming and in perfect condition. But she also noticed another name besides her last name: Hamato. She made a mental to ask about that later.

April ran toward the plane. The exit hatch opened and a small set of steps thudded to the dirt. Susan descended and, when April stopped in front of her, said, "April. It's been some time."

April smiled and enveloped her aunt in a hug. "Yes. Yes it has."

It had been seven years since she had last looked at Susan O'Neil, and in some fundamental ways April was not the same sixteen year old girl who had left America as a stowaway on a tramp freighter. But she felt recognition and a familiar, immense affection for the elegant, courtly woman who stood before her.

Susan looked at April, scanning her from hairline to feet. April knew what she was seeing—a long-haired, sooty woman wearing black rags. "You look rather fashionable," Susan said. "Apart from the dried blood."

April followed Susan into the aircraft. The hatch closed and the engines revved and within seconds they were airborne. The interior of the plane was well appointed, with leather seats, a padded bulkhead, and first-class food service. Susan gave April a glass of orange juice, which tasted as though it was fresh-pressed, and settled into a seat across from her.

"Are you coming back to New York for good?" she asked.

"As long as it takes." April sipped the orange juice. "I'm going to show New York that the city doesn't belong to the criminals and the corrupt."

Susan leaned back in her chair and said, "During the time your father was working with the company, he nearly bankrupted O'Neil Enterprises combating poverty. He believed that his example would inspire the wealthy of New York to save their city."

"Did it?"

"In a way . . . your fathers' murder shocked the wealthy and powerful into action."

April nodded. "People need dramatic examples to shake them out of apathy. I can't do this as April O'Neil. A woman is just flesh-and-blood and can be ignored or destroyed. But a symbol . . . as a symbol I can be incorruptible, everlasting."

"What symbol?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"I assume that since you're taking on the underworld that this 'symbol' is a persona to protect those you are about to endanger from reprisal?"

April nodded again. "You're thinking about Irma?"

"Actually I was thinking of myself."

April smirked. "Have you told anyone that I'm coming back?"

"Well . . . . . I haven't quite figured out the legal ramifications of raising you from the dead."

April leaned forward, thinking maybe she heard wrong."Dead?"

"It's been seven years."

"So you had me declared dead?"

"Actually, it was Mr. Thompson" Susan said. "Even though the owner of Hamato Industries advised against it for some reason. Just because Mr. Hamato owns half the company, Mr. Thompson wanted to liquidate your majority shareholding. Both Mr. Thompson and Mr. Hamato are taking the whole company public. Your shares brought in an enormous amount of capital."

"Good thing I left everything to you, then. Or in this case my half."

"Quite so." Susan closed her eyes. "You're welcome to borrow the Rolls, by the way. Just bring it back with a full tank."

"One more thing" April said. "Who's the owner of Hamato Industries?"

"Oh, him? He's a real recluse. Never really comes out in public. But his name is, if I remember correctly, Donatello, I believe?"

"Oh." If April was in shock, she didn't show it. "Okay. Just wondering."

The plane refueled once that day, and twice more before flying over a New York whose spires were catching the gold of first morning light. April peered from her window down at a place she had not seen in a long time, and wondered what dramas were occurring in its streets.


	7. Return

April considered making a big show of her return to New York but decided against it. Oh, she would certainly reveal herself with all appropriate bells and whistles sooner or later, and probably sooner, but first she wanted to accomplish a few things without being scrutinized by every gossip hound on the East Coast.

The first item on April's agenda was to find out just who and what she had spent the last year of her life with. Neither Saki nor any of the trainees explained the exact nature of the League of Shadows, much less any of its particulars—when it had originated, how it was financed, and most important, what its purpose was.

April asked Susan for help and so Susan spent five days in various New York libraries, and another day telephoning professors at the local universities. Unfortunately, she learned very little.

On the morning of April's sixth day back, she and Susan met in the library after a late breakfast. Susan flipped back the cover of a notebook and said, "I'm afraid I have disappoint you, April."

"You never have, Susan."

"Then you're about to experience an historic first. All I managed to find regarding this 'League of Shadows' is that no one believes it ever really existed. It seems to be a chimerical organization like the Illuminati or the Order of St. Dumas. There are a few scattered legends concerning it, but according to my sources, not a scrap of genuine evidence."

"Nothing written down? Memoirs, business papers . . ."

"Absolutely nothing."

"Well, I hate to contradict the experts, but they're wrong with a capital W. I didn't _imagine_ the monastery, Saki, Suì zhǐ jī and all the rest."

"I'm strangley reminded of something the French poet Charles Baudelaire once wrote. 'The devil's deepest wile is to persuade us that he does not exist.' "

"Susan, I had no idea you were so erudite."

"I'm not. I was dusting a book of French verse one day and it happened to fall open and . . ." Susan tilted her head to one side and shrugged, as if to say, _What is one to do? These things happen._

April thanked Susan, borrowed the notebook, and drove her Lamborghini Murcielago toward the city. She was sure that Susan had been thorough, but she was still not satisfied.

_It won't kill me to find out what I can learn on my own . . ._

April parked the Lamborghini in the visitors' lot of a college campus library where her father would lecture students long ago amid a cluster of huge SUVs and walked across a quadrangle toward the administration building. The library had deteriorated since her last visit. The grass was badly in need of mowing, the sidewalks were cracked and uneven, the paint on the walls of the buildings was faded and peeling. But the coeds she passed were pretty and the male students certainly seemed energetic. Three of them were throwing a Frisbee around. One of them missed a catch and the disk spun toward April. She caught it and sent it back—a bit too hard. It struck a young, blond-haired man in the chest and almost knocked him over.

"Sorry," April shouted, and wondered to herself: _Could those things be adapted to weapons?_

She entered the admin building and wrinkled her nose. Was that _urine_ she was smelling? Could it possibly be? She went through a door marked INFORMATION and spoke to a middle-aged man whose trim haircut and pressed suit were in marked contrast to his surroundings. She was polite and helpful and able to direct April to a researcher's office.

April recrossed the quadrangle to the library, climbed a flight of stairs off the main lobby, and found a woman by the name of Perri Grey behind a large wooden desk, surrounded by thousands of shelved books, peering at a computer screen. The place smelled of old leather and old paper—a _nice_ smell, this was, unlike what she had sniffed in the admin building. It reminded April of the library at the old farmhouse. When she entered, Perri raised her eyes and smiled a welcome. She was in her late thirties, with dark brown hair, regular features, and a trim figure. April wondered if she should tell her her real identity, but decided against it. She and Susan had yet to sort out what Susan had called "the legal ramifications of raising you from the dead."

But would she remember, and recognize, her? _One way to find out_ . . .

April extended her hand. "Ms. Grey? I'm . . . Cassandra Cain."

Perri looked at her scrutinizingly. "You remind me of someone . . . April. April O'Neil?"

"My cousin. Some say the resemblance is uncanny." April sighed. "Poor April."

"What happened to her? I heard she just vanished."

"Yes. Several years ago. Perhaps she'll turn up someday . . . But I need your help _now_."

"What can I do for you?"

April told her about the League of Shadows and saw that she was immediately interested. Obviously, Ms. Grey enjoyed a challenge. She proceeded to dazzle her. She had not known there were so many ways to pursue facts and five hours later she had filled Susan's notebook with information—enough for her to make several good guesses about the League of Shadows.

"One more thing," April said as Perri pushed back from her computer.

"Yes?"

"Can you find anything on Suì zhǐ jī?"

"Well, he's mentioned in one of the references. Let's see what else there might be." Perri returned to her computer and reference books and, after another hour had passed, gave April more information.

As April was leaving Perri's office, she thanked her and asked if there was anything she could do for _her._

"Well, as you may have noticed, things have gotten a bit shabby around here . . . I realize that you're probably not as well off as your cousin . . ."

"I'll send a check." _And it will be a large one._

Back at the house, April sank into her father's favorite easy chair in the library and opened the notebook. As Susan had said, solid information about the League of Shadows was sparse. The earliest recorded mention of it was appended to a piece of parchment dating to the fourteenth century, copied by a monk in an Irish monastery. According to this fragment, the League had already been in existence for hundreds of years. The next reference was in a letter, again just a fragment, sent from Paris to Berlin in 1794, at the height of the French Revolution. Then another, more cryptic message concerning the League sent from a clothier in Japan to a Manchester sea captain; there was no month or day on it, but the year was 1866.

In the early twentieth century, an Oxford don had done a monograph on what he termed "secret societies" that was mostly concerned with the Masons, the Ku Klux Klan, the Knights Templar, The Brotherhood of Assassin's, the Order of St. Dumas, the Illuminati, and the League of Shadows. The learned academic dismissed the latter three as "very likely the turbulent fabrications of overwrought imaginations," and did not bother to list the sources he had consulted, an omission Perri Grey apparently considered grievous.

"But," she had concluded, "despite his pedagogical slovenliness and his turbulent and overwrought prose style, I guess he was right. There doesn't seem to have been a League of Shadows."

"Do you always say things like 'pedagogical slovenliness'?"

"Only when I'm tired or trying to impress someone. I'll let you decide which applies here."

As for Suì zhǐ jī . . . there was even less information about him than about his League, and what there was April found hard to believe. The name itself was easy: Grey had found a meaning a few minutes after she'd accessed a lexicographical database. In Japanese it meant: "The Shredder." April thought she had heard that name before, a long time ago, but she couldn't remember where. And the name was about the extent of what April considered reliable: data.

_So that leaves me . . . where?_

The telephone rang, a loud jangling from an old-fashioned phone on Kirby O'Neil's desk that seemed to shake the walls of the library.

"I've got it, Susan," April yelled, picking up the receiver.

The caller was Perri Grey. "I've come across something," she said.

"I'm all ears."

"There was an eccentric collector named Berthold Cavally who got very interested in the kinds of things that seem to interest you. Amassed quite a collection of artifacts of all kinds, but he had a special interest in lost civilizations, cults, secret societies, and the like. He died in a fire in 1952 and his collection burned up with him."

"Very interesting, Perri, but how does this . . ."

"Wait. There's a bit more. A nephew found one of Cavally's notebooks in the ashes along with a badly charred fragment of a parchment. Both items had been partially burned, but a lot of it survived. Apparently, it contains Cavally's translation of a parchment he acquired in North Africa and it mentions this Suì zhǐ jī character."

"And how might an earnest young lass get a look at this notebook?"

"Well, if she's earnest _and_ rich, she might buy it. The nephew got wiped out in a dot-com fiasco and is selling everything he can get his hands on."

"Where and when?"

"I hope you have a bag packed. The items are up for sale at an auction tomorrow at ten in New York City, at a place called the Olympus Gallery."

"I'll be there—if you'll give me an address."

Perri recited an address on Madison Avenue and Sixty-first Street. April thanked her again and began to book a hotel.

Susan volunteered to learn something about the Olympus Gallery and made a few calls. She reported that it had once been a prestigious venue for acquiring antiquities, but lately had become "decidedly second-rate."

April thanked her and moved toward the door.

"Hang on." Susan said. She held up the bloodstained clothes April had been wearing at the airstrip in Kathmandu.

"Let's hang on to them."

"I doubt they'll ever be clean again, April."

"They're souvenirs. Souvenirs don't have to be spotless."

"Souvenirs of what, if I may ask?"

"Most people get a diploma when they complete their schooling. I got a sooty, smoky, bloody ninja suit. I think I got the better deal."

"I doubt that the diploma manufacturers are a bit worried."

For the next fifteen minutes, April busied herself making more telephone calls. The one she considered most important was to the O'Neil Enterprises offices in the Hamato/O'Neil Tower. A chirpy-voiced receptionist told him that Mr. Thompson or Mr. Hamato were not in and was not expected, but would return from vacation in a few days and perhaps the lady would like to leave her name and call back at that time. The lady said she would prefer _not_ to leave her name, thank you, but would be happy to call again.

April wandered into the kitchen where Susan, wearing a white apron, was feeding something into a blender. When April explained what her problem was, Susan took a credit card from her wallet. April thanked her and returned to the library and her phone calls. Using Susan's card number, she made a hotel reservation in New York City for the following day and a hotel reservation at the Plaza in Manhattan.

At six twenty-five the next morning, April was walking through a terminal at La Guardia Airport in Queens, New York. She remembered liking airports when her and her father had passed through them on vacations, en route to Paris, London, Hong Kong, Buenos Aires, the Caribbean Islands: a different destination every year until she was fourteen, and all of them enchanting to a wide-eyed little girl. But this airport, _now . . ._ maybe her time with Suì zhǐ jī had changed her tastes, or maybe the years she had lived since childhood did. For whatever reason, she found La Guardia at six-thirty in the morning to be depressing. Her fellow passengers mostly walked with their heads down, as though moving into a ferocious wind, and carried their tote bags and suitcases and attachés as though they were the burdens of the damned.

_It's early. Maybe they'll cheer up later on . . ._

April was far from chipper herself. She was not a morning person—that was one of the many lessons she had learned at the monastery. It was not a matter of character, as some of her high school teachers had apparently believed, but of the body's natural circadian rhythms. But she had also learned that willpower, judiciously applied, could trump lethargy. If she _had_ to be wide awake and fully functioning in the morning, she could be.

_The will is everything_ . . .

She was traveling light today, with nothing but the clothes on her back and a wallet full of currency. She stood in line for twenty minutes before she could get a taxicab, another indication that she had not yet fully readjusted to being the wealthy scion of a wealthy family: a wealthy scion would have had a limousine waiting. She gave the driver the Madison Avenue address and watched the scenery go by. The cab merged with an army of automobiles, all inching toward the distant Manhattan skyline.

Once the cab had actually crossed the East River into Manhattan, April amused herself by looking at New York City, comparing it from 2012 when she left, the the now time of 2019: the buildings were, on the whole, taller, yet here there was none of the oppressive cavernous quality that characterized downtown. Sunlight actually reached the sidewalk in. Not much had changed, technology wise. She had always assumed by this time, there would be flying cars littering the sky, and all of the technologies she'd seen in movie would have come to pass. But all in all, it was relatively they same. Just a bit shinier.

Ninety minutes after it had left La Guardia, the cab stopped in front of a brownstone house that April estimated to be at least 150 years old and was obviously built by someone who was wealthy—a friend of her grandfather's, maybe? She paid the fare and climbed the steps to the front door. A tasteful brass plate above the doorbell was etched with the words OLYMPUS GALLERY.

The door opened and a pretty young brunette in a pantsuit gave April a catalog printed on vellum and escorted her to a long, wide chamber obviously converted from several smaller rooms. The woman did not recognize her, which relieved April, but did not surprise her. Kirby O'Neil had discouraged journalists from publishing photos of his family; the last picture of April to grace the public prints was taken when she was barely ten, before she had even attained her full growth, much less been hardened by her travels. She no longer looked much like that cherubic adolescent.

The room was crowded with rows of chairs occupied by a diverse array of men and women, all well dressed, most of them speaking in murmurs to companions. At the far end was a raised platform and a lectern, flanked by paintings on easels and a few statues. The young brunette offered April coffee, tea, chocolate, scones, and pastries. April asked for coffee. A minute later she returned with some in a dainty china cup. She told her that the rooms around them had an interesting variety of works of art and suggested that she might want to examine them after the auction. April thanked her, both for the coffee and the suggestion, and received a carefully crafted smile in return.

A tall, cadaverous man with thick glasses and a few wisps of brown hair combed over his dome moved behind the lectern and welcomed everyone.

He tapped a microphone and winced when a shriek of feedback filled the room, and said, "Before we begin today's proceedings, I have a regrettable announcement to make. On page eleven of your catalogs—" There was a rustling as the gallery patrons turned pages. The tall man continued. "You see listed there an item offered by James Cavally, a parchment accompanied by his uncle's translation of its contents. Unfortunately, we are not able to offer this to you today."

"Why not?" someone asked.

"I regret to say that Mr. Cavally perished in an airplane crash last night and the items described in the catalog were destroyed with him. We, of course, convey our deepest sympathy to his family and friends on their loss. Now, if there are no further questions . . . we begin the auction with lot seven . . ."

April was pretty sure she was not interested in the oil paintings of sunsets or the marble statues of nymphs or anything else the Olympus Gallery would sell that day. She got up and made her way to the door, aware that the brunette was frowning at her, and left the house. She started to wave down a passing cab—

And stopped, gesturing to the cabbie to keep going. She turned and remounted the steps. By the time she reached the door, she knew why she had not gotten into the cab, what was nagging at her.

_Too much of a coincidence . . . the guy with the __Suì zhǐ jī __information dying the night before it went on sale. That might mean that there's something in the old manuscript actually worth knowing, and that means I shouldn't give up so easily . . ._

With an exasperated look on her face, the brunette again showed her to a seat. She did not offer her coffee, and her smile this time was glacial.

April sat through an hour's tedium; she had not been so bored since a day in her old high school classroom when a professor had droned on and on about Jungian archetypes. Toward the end of the auction, April outbid everyone else and found herself the owner of a marble nymph. She thought that maybe taking the monstrosity off the auctioneer's hands would incline her to be friendly.

She had no idea what she would do with it. It was too big to be a paperweight . . .

When the sale was finally over, and the art lovers had left, still murmuring to each other, April paid for the nymph, approached the auctioneer, and introduced herself.

"I'm Wesley Carter," the auctioneer said, shaking April's hand. "I must congratulate you on your acquisition. A truly fine piece. What do you plan to do with it, if I may ask?"

"It will occupy a place of honor," April said and added to herself: _In a swamp somewhere._ "I wonder if I might have a word with you in private."

Wesley Carter scrutinized April and clearly approved of what he was seeing. He almost certainly recognized that the casual clothing his visitor wore had cost several thousand dollars and told himself that a person who could afford such plumage was a person who could also afford expensive art. "If you'll come with me, Ms . . ."

"Cain. Cassandra Cain."

April followed Wesley Carter up a steep flight of winding stairs to a small office on the second floor, probably a maid's room originally. April settled into a leather chair and told Carter what she wanted.

When April had finished, Carter said, "Let me be certain I understand you. You're asking if there is any way to learn the contents of Mr. Cavally's uncle's translation."

As Carter spoke, his eyes shifted down and to the left, briefly but unmistakably.

"That's it exactly."

"Well . . . Mr. Cavally was an extremely cautious person. That's why he insisted on bringing the items himself. But I couldn't offer them to our clients without some knowledge of them—our patrons are _most_ discerning. So Mr. Cavally photocopied both the original parchment and his uncle's work on it and forwarded the photographs to us last week."

Again, the darting glance down and to the left.

"I can't tell you how happy I am to hear that," April said. "I'd like to buy those copies."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question."

"I'd be willing to let you name your own price."

"Ms. Cain I would love to be able to accommodate you, I truly would. But until I hear from Mr. Cavally's lawyers . . ."

"When will that be?"

"Well, these matters seldom proceed rapidly. I would guess two to three months, at the earliest."

"Did I mention you can set your own price?"

"Yes you did," Carter said, his tone now frosty. "And did _I_ mention that it's out of the question?"

April rose and extended her hand. "Sorry to have taken up your time."

"No trouble, Ms. Cain."

They shook, and April said she could find her own way out. She descended the winding staircase and, in the short hall leading to the exit, noticed another door. She glanced around. Nobody was near. She opened the door and was looking at another short flight of steps leading to a cellar.

_Oh-kayyy . . ._

She left and walked around the block, mentally noting everything about it, from the kinds of awnings the shops had to the placement of fire hydrants. When she was satisfied with her reconnaissance, she strolled downtown on Madison Avenue, allowing herself to be a tourist and merely enjoy the sights. At Sixtieth, she cut across a corner of Central Park to the Plaza Hotel. She signed in and before going up to her room, asked the concierge for some store suggestions.

She got the photo supplies she needed on Forty-seventh Street and the clothing on Sixth Avenue. She briefly visited a luggage shop on Broadway, and at a large drugstore near Rockefeller Center, she bought a pair of rubber gloves and a penlight. She made her final purchase at a hardware store in Greenwich Village.

She returned to the Olympus Gallery at four that afternoon, now dressed in a black silk shirt, a black dress jacket, dark blue pants and very expensive black sneakers, carrying an alligator attaché case with gold fittings.

She nodded pleasantly to the brunette. "Saw some things this morning I might like to have. Going to have another peek at them, if that's all right."

The brunette replied with an excessively wide smile and said certainly, she could take her time, but they _did_ close at five.

April browsed through several of the galleries, trying to look like a really avid art lover, but really checking the security arrangements. There was one video camera in the lobby and nothing else that she could see. She waited until she was momentarily alone, then dashed to the cellar door and scrambled down the steps.

The cellar was almost totally dark, but light from a place where paint had chipped from a window that had been painted over was enough for her to see by. She was in a low-ceilinged basement filled with crates and what must have been paintings wrapped in brown paper. At the rear, behind all the clutter, she could see an old-fashioned coal bin, which was also full of crates. She went into it and crouched in a dark corner, took off her jack, and stuffed it in a bag. Then she slipped on a black bandanna, covering the top half of her face. Then she sat and waited.

Waiting was no problem. It was something Oroku Saki had insisted she learn and Saki had taught her well_._

She heard footsteps on the floor above her, and muffled voices calling good-byes. Then silence.

She waited, aware of all the noises in the old house and the darkness around him, alert but still.

When she checked her watch, the faintly luminous dial on her Rolex said 8:25. Rolling her sleeve back, she put on the rubber gloves, crept from her hiding place, ascended the steps, and slowly, carefully opened the door, just a crack.

_There must be guards. I'd rather not run into them . . ._

She listened: the creakings and groanings of any old house, and somewhere, the whine of an electric engine. He crept into the carpeted hall. Careful to stay out of the scanning area of the single video camera, which was really no problem, she went up the winding staircase until she reached the upper landing and heard someone coughing. A flashlight beam struck the wall just ahead of her; someone was in an adjoining hall, coming her way. Whoever it was would be facing her in two or three seconds. He was loud and he smelled of cheap body spray that nearly overpowered April's sense of smell.

With neither hesitation nor conscious thought, she swung over the railing and hung from the floor of the landing, her legs dangling down into a gallery below, the handle of the attaché in her teeth. A uniformed man, with a belly that drooped over a belt festooned with a small radio and a can of Mace, lumbered past, sweeping a flashlight beam ahead of him. His right shoe sole came within an inch of April's fingers.

By the time the man had reached the top of the stairs, April had vaulted over the railing. She moved as she had been taught to move, swiftly and in absolute silence, to the door of Wesley Carter's office. She tried the knob and found it unlocked. Wesley was a trusting soul, bless him. April entered and crossed to the desk. She took off her mask, opened her attaché and removed the small crowbar she had purchased in the Greenwich Village hardware store. Carter had twice glanced at the top left-hand drawer of his desk while discussing the photocopies, so that was where April would start her search. She was prepared to hate herself for using a crowbar on such a fine piece of furniture, but she did not have to; like the door, the drawer was open. Carter was a _very_ trusting soul. Or he did not think the contents of the drawer were worth stealing, and maybe he was right.

April removed a small camera from her attaché and lay the photocopies flat on the desktop. For the next ten minutes, she photographed the photocopies, hoping that the tiny flash from her camera would be visible neither under the door nor to anyone outside the room's single window.

She replaced the original copies in the drawer, stepped to the door, and pressed her ear against it: no lumbering footsteps.

_Now to figure out an exit strategy . . ._

The sidewalk in front of the house would still be busy at this time of night. New York was a city that never slept, and he did not want to chance being seen leaving and be arrested for burglary. The rear faced the backyards of private homes and a few tony businesses, some of which would certainly have dogs and security cameras.

That left the roof.

She glided down the hallway to a window and took the penlight from her pants pocket. She quickly ran the light beam over the edges of the window: no tape. So no security alarm. She lifted the window, slowly, to make as little noise as possible, and stood on the sill, the back of her body facing the yard below, the handle of the attaché again gripped in her teeth.

_Okay, now the hard part_ . . .

She bent her knees and jumped straight up. Her gloved fingers curled around the edge of the roof and he flexed his arms and lifted herself until he could roll over onto the rooftop.

From here on, it would be easy. During her earlier reconnaissance, April had noted the location of a tall tree, three doors south of the gallery. So: over the roofs, a short jump to the tree, a brief wait until no one was near, then down to the sidewalk and back to the hotel. Piece of cake.

Hours later, April was in the sunny kitchen of her farmhouse finishing her breakfast.

"I hope your meal was alright," Susan said from the sink, where she was rinsing out some cups.

"Absolutely," April said. "What could be better than the blood sausage and eggs Benedict you've been giving me?"

Susan finished with the cups and sat across the table from April. "You seem pensive this morning. Anything you'd like to share?"

"I'm rehashing yesterday. Trying to make sense of it, I guess."

"What about it?"

"For one thing, I _liked_ it. Almost all of it. Dangling like a Christmas tree ornament, running across those rooftops . . . it felt _right,_ somehow."

"The thrill of danger, perhaps?"

"I know that thrill, and this wasn't it. This was . . . more. Like I was finally doing something I should be doing."

"Really? Are you aware that the career opportunities for cat burglars are severely limited? And the benefits are terrible. No health insurance, no parking space . . ."

"Okay, point taken. May I change the subject?"

"Why not?"

"I've got some pictures to be developed and I'd rather not trust the drugstore. Any ideas?"

"I've got a friend in Echo Creek that has photographic equipment."

"Is your friend discreet?"

"Completely. Only thing is, he's quite a ways away."

"As long as he's discreet."

April went into the library and returned with the alligator attaché case.

"They're in here. Your friend can keep the attaché case."

"I'm sure he'll put it to good use. By the way . . . what use was it to _you_?"

"It carried my tools and it was a pain in . . . the teeth. I'm not sure a shoulder bag would have been much better when I was rooftop hopping. Something like a tool belt . . . I could have used night-vision lenses, too, and an infrared flashlight might have been useful."

"Well then, the next time you commit a felony, we'll equip you properly."

"I hope so," April said with a grin.

Ten minutes later, Susan drove her Bentley away and April was left to wonder what to do with herself. Well, what _do_ people do when they don't have to run across glaciers, repulse armed ninjas, or commit burglary?

_Watch television, of course._

Except for occasional moments aboard ship, when the vessel he happened to be on was in position to receive commercial broadcasts, April had not watched TV in over seven years. She went into the den and switched on a large flatscreen monitor.

She watched. _Had there always been this many commercials?_ She grew bored until she made the watching an exercise in patient awareness. She was still and she waited and was aware of the sight and sound of the television set, which was tuned to an all-news channel.

On the screen: several fire trucks outside a burning brownstone.

From the speaker: . . . _officials say the fire was apparently started when a boiler in the basement of the 150-year-old building exploded. A night watchman, Henry Billeret, is believed to have died in the conflagration, although his body has not yet been recovered. Mr. Billeret was a retired New York City police officer . . ._

The brownstone housed—_had_ housed—the Olympus Gallery. So the owner of the documents and the documents themselves were destroyed in a plane crash and two days later the place for which they were bound burns to the ground. Could it possibly be a coincidence?

She had a sudden need to do something physical; she could watch more later. She put the manuscript in a drawer, went to her room, and changed into a pair of sweat pants and a sports bra.

In the garden behind the house, she began a series of dancelike martial arts moves designed both to hone her combat skills and improve her overall conditioning. Within minutes, she was sweating and panting and feeling fine. The moon was directly overhead and quite bright; April had all the light she needed.

A car passed the gate, almost a quarter of a mile away, going too fast for the narrow road. April glanced at its headlights and stopped in midmotion.

_If I can see the car, maybe the car's occupants can see me. Do I want the world to know that April O'Neil is alive and a wannabe Bruce Lee?_

Okay, no martial arts, not where she could be seen. But she still felt the need to exert himself. So—she could run. Running is something anyone might do and if anyone came close enough to see her, April would stop, and rest her palms on his knees, and pant, and pretend to be exhausted.

She ran. Out the gate and left on the road and all the way to the freeway ramp, two and a half miles south, and back to the house. It felt wonderful to be stretching her legs, muscles sliding and locking, moving smoothly and gracefully under the moon and stars of a glorious early summer night. After a while, the rhythmic slap of her shoe soles on the asphalt became pleasantly hypnotic but he resisted letting her attention relax. A lesson learned at the monastery: Always be alert—always. But that did not preclude her enjoying herself.

She met no one.

* * *

Susan returned late in the evening bearing a large bound album. In the center of each heavy brown page was a photograph of writing, about half of which was in English, the other half in a calligraphy April did not recognize.

"Do we owe your friend anything?" April asked Susan.

"He has his favorite charities. Perhaps a donation?"

"You decide the amount, I'll sign the check. After I'm declared legally alive, that is."

As she was going up the stairs to shower, Susan called from the kitchen that dinner was almost ready.

Five minutes later, hair still wet, dressed in a different bra and chinos, April joined Susan at the big table in the dining room.

Susan was apologetic. "I'm afraid the pheasant might be a bit overdone and I couldn't get the really good truffles . . ."

"It'll all be wonderful," April assured her and began putting food in her mouth. "Delicious."

"I sense a certain insincerity in the compliment," Susan said. "You sound like a little kid who's found socks under the Christmas tree instead of toys. I've detected a lack of enthusiasm for my other meals, too.."

April dabbed at her lips with a napkin. "Ok, you got me. Aunt Susan, the food really _is_ good, and I appreciate the effort you put into it. But I guess my tastes got simplified while I was abroad. A bowl of rice and a serving of vegetables tastes as good to me as filet mignon now, and I don't leave the table feeling . . . . well, weighed down after eating them."

"So what, you only want me to make you soup and rice and beans and things like that?"

"Sometimes, when you're in the mood, sure—knock yourself out. But every meal doesn't have to be a feast." April pushed back from the table. "I don't wanna offend you . . ."

"April, I can't tell you how _little_ you've offended me. To be honest . . . I haven't felt so relieved in years. I've been spending half my time in the kitchen, and the other half at the market. Tomorrow night, rest assured, you will be given the _best_ bowl of rice in the county. And not a morsel more."

"I look forward to it."

April went into the library and picked up the manuscript. She heard Susan leave by the side door and, a minute later, her Bentley driving down to the gate. This was Susan's night out. From hints she had dropped, probably intentionally, April guessed that Susan spent these weekly trips to the city in the company of a man, a doctor who operated a clinic in one of New Yorks less savory neighborhoods. April didn't know the exact nature of the relationship, nor did she want to. Susan had earned her privacy, a thousand times over.

April took the album into the library and settled into the leather easy chair. There she sat, pondering what she would find about the man who she spent so much time with. Pushing on, April began reading.

* * *

Sergeant Arnold Jones Sr. squirmed in the front seat of the unmarked police car, and looked out the driver-side window at his partner, Steele, standing in front of a liquor store and shaking hands with its owner. It was late afternoon and they should have been back at the station house, but Steele had this stop to make.

Steele crossed the street, got into the driver's seat, and held up a wad of currency.

"Don't s'pose you want a taste?" he asked Jones.

Jones stared at Steele.

Steele grinned and began counting the money. "I keep offering 'cause who knows, maybe one day you'll get wise."

"Nothing wise in what you do."

"Well, Arnie, you don't take your taste, makes us guys nervous you might decide to roll over."

Jones let his irritation creep into his voice. "I'm not a rat. If I were, I'd still be in Chicago. Besides, in a town this bent, who's there to rat to?"

Steele laughed, started the car, and screeched down the street. Fifteen minutes later he braked in front of the station house. Jones got out of the car and, his body sagging with weariness, watched Steele drive away.

Standing in the doorway of a tailor shop that was closed for the night, April O'Neil watched Jones as Jones had watched Flass.

He went up a flight of steps to the detective division on the second floor of the precinct house, ignoring the screaming from the ragged woman who had just been led to the front desk and the everpresent stink of smoke and stale humanity. He had a little paperwork to get done before he climbed into his ten-year-old sedan and drove home. Cassie would have a decent meal waiting, even if it was a meal that came from cans, and she'd ask him how his day went and he'd say fine. Like always. If it wasn't too late, Arnie would read his daughter a story and tuck her in. Maybe then he and Cass and his son Casey would watch some TV.

Or maybe they'd argue. The same old argument. Cass would tell Arnie that there was no future in the NYPD and no future for him in any police work, not since Chicago, and he would probably lose his temper. What had happened in Chicago hadn't been his fault, even if he took the heat for it, and Cass knew that and why the hell did she keep bringing it up?

But later, lying in bed, he'd admit to himself that his wife was right. He was only in New York because, after Chicago, the New York force was the only one that would hire him. He'd had to return to his hometown with his tail between his legs. But, dammit, he was a _cop._ That's all he had ever been. Even in the Marines, he'd been assigned to a shore patrol unit.

He pulled a standard form from the stack on the corner of the desk and began writing a report that no one would ever read—hell, that probably wouldn't even get filed.


	8. Embracing The Fear

Irma Langstine sat in the courtroom for forty-five minutes, listening to Dr. Baxter Stockman's testimony. Much of what the thin, bespectacled psychiatrist said was the medical equivalent of boilerplate, filling up air and time without communicating much, but two sentences caught Irma's attention. As she listened she twisted a handkerchief in her lap and bit her lip.

"In my opinion," Stockman told the court, "Mr. Montés is as much a danger to himself as others."

The doctor looked at the prisoner, a thin man with a black afro wearing an orange jumpsuit who sat beside his lawyer at a long table.

"Prison is probably not the best environment for his rehabilitation," Stockman concluded. "But he would be a welcome addition to our group at Pennville Sanitarium."

When the hearing was over, Irma ran down the long, curving marble steps and caught up with Stockman in the lobby.

"Dr. Stockman!" she called breathlessly.

He stopped by the door to the portico and said, "Yes, Miss Langstine?"

"Do you seriously think that Xever Montés shouldn't be in jail?"

"I would hardly have testified to that otherwise, would I, Miss Langstine?"

Together, they went through the door and began walking in the portico toward an adjoining building.

Irma said, "This is the third of Antonio Vivaldi's thugs that you've seen fit to have declared insane and moved into your asylum."

"You shouldn't really be surprised," Stockman answered. "The work offered by organized crime has an . . . attraction for the insane."

"And the corrupt."

Stockman stopped in midstep, turned to Irma, and spoke over her shoulder: "Mr. Fenwick, I think you should check with Miss Langstine here. Just what implications has your office authorized her to make? If any."

Stockman stalked away as Irma watched her boss approach. Vernon Fenwick took Irma's arm and said, "What are you doing, Irma?"

"What are _you_ doing, Vern?"

"Looking out for you."

Fenwick guided Irma to an alcove before speaking again. "Irma, Vivaldi's got half the city bought and paid for . . . drop it."

"How can you say that?"

"Because much as I care about getting Vivaldi . . . I care more about you."

"That's sweet, Vern. But we've been through all this."

Irma stood on her toes and gave Vern a sisterly kiss on the cheek, and left.

* * *

Across the street, sitting on a bus stop bench, a woman wearing a baseball cap and sweat clothes that were old and frayed, watched Irma kiss Fenwick and hurry toward the parking lot. Then April walked down the block and behind a greeting-card store, where Susan waited in the car.

Several hours later, showered, and dressed in jeans and a grey sweatshirt, April sat on the floor of her library shuffling through papers and photographs. She paused at a picture of Irma leaving the court, taken with a telephoto lens. She heard a chittering sound and dropped the photo, stood, and strode into the mansion's main hall. She squinted and stared upward, trying to see clearly a shadowy thing that fluttered just outside the window.

Susan, holding a silver tea service, spoke from the doorway to the kitchen: "Another bat again. They nest somewhere on the grounds."

"Yes, they do."

Ten minutes later, April, wearing a long overcoat, with a coil of rope over one arm, walked past the greenhouse. The long, low building where April and Irma had played together as children had not fared well: glass was cracked or completely missing; paint was peeling from the wrought-iron frame. April continued to the old well shaft; it was almost completely overgrown with weeds.

April wrenched loose the boards covering the well and tossed them aside. She tied one end of her rope to a nearby tree and began lowering herself into the dark, chilly shaft. When she reached the bottom, she felt air blowing on her face. She unclipped a flashlight from her belt and shone its beam into a crevice. She remembered an old panic . . .

. . . bats tearing at her . . .

She stooped and pulled stones from the well's curving wall until the crevice was wide enough to accommodate her. Then, on her hands and knees, the flashlight wedged between chin and shoulder, she crawled.

Within a few yards, the crevice widened into a low-ceilinged chamber. By bowing her head, April was able to stand. She heard running water. Crouching, she inched forward. The angle of the stone under her boots changed. In the flashlight beam, she saw that the chamber floor was tilting downward. April lay on her back and slid, slowly lowering herself into—

Someplace huge—April sensed that. She got a chemical torch from inside her coat, cracked it, and threw it. The harsh metallic glare revealed a vast cavern, long, tapered stalagmites rising from its floor, equally long stalactites jutting from above.

The torchlight glinted on a wide gap full of running water that roared and sprayed white foam in the center of the cavern.

_I wonder if I'm the first person ever to see this place . . ._

She swept her flashlight beam upward, to the darkness between the stalactites, and saw a flicker of movement. A second before they descended—thousands and thousands of flapping, chittering, screeching bats—April realized what they were and knelt and covered her head and face with her arms. She felt hot panic—

Then she remembered the bats that had swarmed from the box at the monastery and felt herself grow calm. Her moment of terror, she knew, had been created by the memories of someone who no longer existed—who had not existed since she saw his fathers' blood spilling over pearls in a New York street alleyway. April had a secret that child had not yet learned: _Embrace your worst fear . . ._

She threw back her arms and stood calmly in the midst of the fluttering maelstrom, grinning.


End file.
